As we arrived at our chapel service on Monday evening, we were asked to take a small container that contained one of four things: flour, salt, yeast and water. We each made our way into the lovely little worship space that holds the oblate’s and brother’s prayers on a daily basis. We were guests here. Guests who had been given the privilege of coming together in the evening to offer our prayers. Prayers of gratitude, hope, weariness and enthusiasm. At an appointed time our worship leader invited us forward to add our ingredients into a large bowl placed on the worship table. Flour first, then salt, followed by yeast and finally water. As scripture was read, songs sung and prayers offered, he slowly and with gentle touch, made bread dough before our eyes. His hands were skilled and familiar with this process. It was a joy to behold.

Yesterday morning as we met and interviewed candidates for ministry, we began to smell the delicious aroma of bread baking from an oven that is in a centrally located kitchen. As we came to refill coffee cups and take bathroom breaks, the sweet smell began to surround everything we were doing. Smiles passed between us. Our bread, made through our worship, was coming into being. At lunchtime, in addition to the meal created by the retreat center staff,there were two beautifully shaped and perfect loaves of honey colored bread. We lined up to receive the slices in the same spirit in which we had received communion the night before. Hands outstretched. Hearts full.

Here was what we had produced. Not individually but all together. Those who had held the flour could not have created the loaf. Those with salt were only salty without the flour. The yeast-holders just carried a minute bit of smelly granules until it was added to the other ingredients. And then there was the water…..ahhhh, the water. All three single ingredients were only dry, dusty particles until the water caused them to come together in a form new to their nature, surprising their components into a fresh and different life.

As I added a little butter to my luscious bread I realized that the bread was an example of what we had been doing all along in our time here together. We had come here with our individual gifts, our own life experiences, our own lens for the world and how we see God’s movement in it. Together we had made something more. As we listened to the faith stories and the calls to ministry of the candidates, at some deep level we understood that not one single person could hear the stories fully. We needed the ingredients of each other to become the fullest body we could be, to create a container of safety and grace for those offering their very lives for our examination. It made the work I know to be holy even more so.

And yet, I believe, this is what we do all the time, isn’t it? In our families, our schools, our work settings, our churches, our nations, our world, we bring our individual gifts for the good of all. I pray that I will be forgiven for the many times I think I carry all the answers, all the ideas, all the ingredients to solve a particular problem or create a specific result to fill a need. I pray I may always remember that I have only my own ingredients to offer.I pray I learn to rely on, expect and anticipate the God-given gifts of all those who travel life’s path with me.

Closing our worship together, the smooth and beautiful round of dough now formed in a clear bowl for us all to see, we prayed these words from a prayer by Graham Sparkes:

‘Be careful when you touch bread.
Let it not lie uncared for….unwanted.
So often bread is taken for granted.
There is so much beauty in bread,
Beauty of sun and soil, beauty of patient toil.
Winds and rain have created it. Christ so often blessed it.
Be gentle when you touch bread.’

For all the gifts we bring, all the ingredients we offer, may we be careful to touch gently and welcome graciously, recognizing the beauty and the blessing that comes individually and creates more than we can imagine. The One who created us has made it so.

It is early morning and I am sitting in a quiet little room at Christ the King Retreat Center near Buffalo, Minnesota. I am here for the yearly retreat in which I am privileged to meet and hear the stories of those coming to be ordained as ministers in the United Methodist Church. It is always a time I look forward to, not only for the opportunity to be present to these people on their journeys but also to be in this place set apart for quiet, reflection and connecting with the Holy. As I write this a deep fog is hanging over the frozen lake outside my window. The leafless trees are standing watch over the tiny houses owned by people who are more courageous than I, people who have not heeded the warnings that our winter has been too warm for such activities as ice fishing, ice houses and driving on the lakes. In the dense fog, I can just make out one house and a truck that has pulled up to it. This scene defies wisdom for me but then I am not originally ‘from around here’ and perhaps don’t understand this lake the way the driver does.

Yesterday on the drive here, I had another experience that baffled me in another way. Tooling along Highway 55, I was minding my own business not thinking about much of anything, when two large white birds flew over the highway right in the path of my car. Flying in tandem, these enormous, beautiful birds stretched their long necks toward their destination. Snow geese. I quickly turned my head to see if there were more where they came from, thinking it odd that they were flying as a duo instead of in a flock. Instead of seeing more white flying wings, I saw a large tree with the primeval stick nest of an eagle. Sitting, watching the snow geese just as I had, was a mature white headed eagle. The two of us had been offered the gift of these soaring birds of winter. As some of my more conservative Christian friends say, I felt ‘twice blessed’.

Just last week I had had a conversation with someone about flying, about how she often sees the presence of the Sacred One in those that rise above the earth. This person talked of the many ways she had seen both the immanence and transcendence of God in flying creatures both large and small. We both shared the times when we had slept and then dreamed of flying, how it felt, the freedom of it, the sense of soaring above all we could see. Certainly there are scriptures that talk of the power and prominence of eagles, some even liken the movement of the Spirit to those with wings. As far as I know there is no reference snow geese in the scriptures. But I could be wrong.

All I know is that on this one particular day, I was lifted above the ordinary by a soaring I will never be able to attain on my power.  A soaring that is not available to me with my two legs. A soaring that must feel like a freedom I have never known. A soaring that would allow me to grasp a perspective I do not have in my groundedness. Being caught off guard by these three beautiful birds seemed a wake up call. While two flew and one surveyed the earth from a high perch, I continued on my way blessed by their presence. It felt like a holy moment in an otherwise ordinary day.

This morning as I reflected on this experience that felt like sacred gift, I was reminded of a poem by (surprise!) Mary Oliver in which she describes an experience of snow geese. She ends the poem with these words: “ The geese flew on, I may never see them again. Maybe I will, someday, somewhere. Maybe I won’t. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that, when I saw them, I saw them as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.”

And to that I say ‘amen’. My encounter with snow geese at 55 miles an hour on a highway in the less than beautiful days of February was a gift that allowed me to glimpse both the nearness and the soaring nature of both bird and Creator. I don’t understand this encounter anymore than I do driving a car on a frozen lake. But as I joined my fellow earth traveler, the eagle, in observing their flight, I would like to think that we both shared in the experience secretly, joyfully and clearly.

Last week was filled with holy work. I have written before in these pages about how much I enjoy receiving, reading and then assembling the submissions to both our Advent and Lenten devotionals. The writings are mostly original, created by those in the church community. If not original, they are words that have been held onto because they have inspired or challenged. I imagine them tucked into the pages of Bibles and books, kept safe for ‘just when I need it’ or when the right opportunity arises to gift them to someone else. This week was the time I gather with two other readers for the creation of this booklet which will help guide people’s walk through the 40 days of Lent. The reflections are words to accompany people on the way to Easter.

Every time I go through this process, I know it for what it is. Sacred work. But this year’s theme seemed to make the reading and the assembling even more so. The theme is “Breaking” and it provided the opportunity for people to share stories of their own breaking. The reflections are remarkable in their vulnerability and candor. Some are heart wrenching. Others are funny. All are honest and courageous. I was filled with humility at the willingness of people to share their deep hurts and despair. I was inspired by their amazing hope and faith. As we read and created an order for these writings, it felt like we were assembling the shards of stories into a beautiful mosaic, a stained glass window of pieces that individually are broken but when placed together create something more, a community that has chosen to strive together toward healing and wholeness.

Leonard Cohen has written a song he calls simply ‘Anthem’. In the lyrics are these lines: ‘Ring the bells that still can ring.Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.’ Yesterday, with the stories of breaking still floating in my heart, I walked into our chapel for worship late in the morning. I was met by the sight of a few of the regular members of the community who had arrived early walking closer to the stained glass windows looking at the images created by colored glass. You see, the sun was shining brightly, a rarity in these winter days. These people who had sat in the seats in this chapel with great regularity were drawn in by the light shining through the broken pieces of glass in a way they must have missed before. The cracks…..that are in everything….were letting the light shine through. This creative act of taking pieces of broken glass and telling the stories of the parables had once again found a way to amaze.  It was as if they were seeing them for the first time.

I thought of all the brokenness in our world. I thought of the people I know who are right now walking around with broken hearts and broken spirits. I thought of the many places where families and communities, whole countries are broken by war and hate. And all the places where the brokenness of injustice and greed and oppression are the rule. I thought about the brokenness in our Creation, places were the water is no longer drinkable, the air filled with harm, the ground saturated with toxins that will create more brokenness. Going down this path can be overwhelming and certainly depressing.

But then I remember the words of those who offered their life stories to us as we created this devotional. Yes, there is a crack in everything, all the time. But that is how the light gets through. The light of the sun making ancient stories dance with new beauty and meaning in a space that had grown familiar. The light of peace offered between people and countries. The light of hope held out to those living on the margins. The light of action as legislators are called to accountability. The light of love as time is shared and relationships are mended.

Today could be a day to take whatever is broken in our lives and hold them before the Light of the One who birthed the sun and everything under it. It might help us see something new, something healing, something life-changing in all those broken pieces.

Last Friday, while on a retreat at Koinonia Retreat Center, I made my way down to the shores of Lake Sylvia. I walked slowly out onto the frozen lake aware that the colorful ice houses normally dotting the scene were absent. The winter has simply been too mild to risk setting up housekeeping in the middle of the lake. Far out on the frozen water, two lonely ice fishermen stood, auger in hand, having just drilled a hole in the ice to wet their lines. Brave souls. The temperatures were mild, the scene a blanket of white.

That’s when I noticed it. The sound, or lack of sound, that has been missing in this less than wintery winter. Normally, when the snow falls and covers everything around in its thick, sound-muffling blanket, there are the moments when you can become aware of what I always think of as ‘the sound of sheer silence.’ This phrase comes to me from the experience of God that the prophet Elijah has on Mount Horeb: ‘The angel said, “Go out and stand on the mountain before God, for the Holy One is about to pass by.” Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before God but God was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but God was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.’ It was in this sound of sheer silence that Elijah experienced God.

Certainly over the years many people have come to know the presence of the Holy in the sounds of silence. It is a rare thing these days, silence. We are surrounded by sounds, chosen or otherwise, wherever we go. Many of us cannot stand to be in a room that is completely silent. We have the television or radio or our computers playing some kind of sound, music or voices, to keep us from walking completely into the silence. Some of this is simple personality type. We extroverts like to have the sense that we are surrounded by at least the sounds of people all the the time. It brings us energy. Our introverted brothers and sisters are often much better with silence.

So here are some questions: When was the last time you experienced silence? How did it feel? Was it comforting or anxiety producing? Did it highlight aloneness or make you pleased to be spending time with yourself? Are you good company?

The mystics of years gone by and of today know the gift of silence. It is in these times of an absence of sound in which we come to connect with the movement of our own breath, the rising and falling of our chest as it signals our aliveness. In silence we can come to know the beating of our heart, remember its rhythm, find a walking pace that tunes us to an awareness of other beings and landscapes that travel with us on a daily basis. Silence can offer the gift of being awake to observing the Holy’s movement in Creation. It is the leveler of distractions.

And on certain days, silence becomes the entry point to an experience of the Sacred. Standing on a frozen lake, waters alive with a spring that is yet to be moving unseen beneath my feet, I had just such an experience. On my drive to this retreat, there had been the sounds of cars whizzing by on the freeway, but God was not found for me in their automated chugs and whirrs; and from the sounds of the radio,music pleasing enough and news blaring its terror, but God was not present to me in the airwaves full of things to amuse or produce fear; there were my plans and notebooks and hopeful intentions for the retreat that was to follow, but God did not at that moment show up even in these.

Instead it was the gift of no sound at all, the enveloping of the sound of sheer silence that wrapped me in a cloak of comfort and knowing, a deep knowing, that I am, we all are, a part of something immense. This Something does not need to always dazzle or shout out our name. Sometimes, in fact most often, we are reminded of this Presence in the silence.

An invitation this day is to find yourself some silence. Rest in it. Allow it to have its way with you. Like Elijah, allow your life to be changed. And be grateful.

“He giveth snow like wool; he scattereth the hoarfrost like ashes.”
~Psalm 147:15-17 

As I have mentioned before in these writings, some weeks are just fuller than others. Do find that to be true in your own life? I am finding myself knee deep in a couple of those very full weeks. This is not a complaint but an observation. I am blessed to be able to do all I am doing. It just all happened to fall at the same time. Many extra meetings in addition to the ones I attend on a regular basis. Two retreats in two weeks which are more working meetings with an overnight thrown in than true retreats. All good stuff. Just a lot of it.

This past weekend I was blessed to drive west of the Cities to our church’s retreat center near Annandale. I had given myself plenty of time for the drive that takes little over an hour. I was driving in the middle of the day, not at rush hour, so I was privileged to take in the ways in which the city quickly rolls into suburbs and finally to farmland with lakes thrown in for good measure. Of course, there is little if any snow so the normal February landscape seems jarring, out of place somehow, as if, like Rip Van Winkle, we have fallen asleep and missed a season or two.

But Friday’s drive and, indeed, the whole weekend did not disappoint. While the snow was absent from the fields, the trees and bushes along the roads made up for it. All the trees, evergreens or otherwise, were decked out in white crystals suspended against the gray skies. The phenomenon known as hoar frost covered everything for as far as the eye could see. I was thankful to be able to mosey along at a slower pace while looking out the window like an alien dropped into a Doctor Zhivago set. Such beauty!

At the retreat, this white covered world became the topic that united us. “How does it work?” “Why does it happen?” “Look how it is starting to melt and drop on that side of the tree but not on the other.” “What does the name mean anyway?” “ Watch how the light shines through the crystals!” “It looks like the trees have grown white hair.” And on and on.

Of course the work we were engaged in was important. We met. We sang. We prayed. We made decisions and asked more questions. Friendships were formed and old ones renewed. We created plans and rolled out hopes for our work together. All good things.

But as we left the retreat late on Saturday afternoon, the sun had finally broken through the clouds that had held us for days. The sky was turning lavender as we drove through fields still visible with nubs of corn from fall’s harvest. The lavender glinted off the white trees creating shadows worthy of an Impressionistic artist.  At one point overhead, a flock of large, white birds flew in ragged formation. Snow geese? I didn’t know. They just seemed to fit right into whatever picture was being painted in the moment, as if the director of some large production had said’ “Now. Cue the big, white birds. Fly right there. Go.”

Their flight and the entire scene seemed to be meant to stun, to amaze, to fill us with awe. And it worked. My breath left my chest and I knew that I was, I am, a part of something huge and wonderful and beautiful.

And it took the tiny, white, glistening crystals of the hoar frost to remind me.

Several days a week I gather with others for lunch in the church’s library. We sit around a table and take a break from whatever it is we’ve been doing all morning and open our lunch bags of leftovers and sandwiches. I often station myself so I can peer out the window that looks onto Hennepin and Lyndale Avenues. With great regularity I see the preschool class from a church down the street on their after lunch – before nap – walk. They move with a methodical pace, each holding onto a rubber ring that is attached to a rope. The adult caregivers flank them, one at the head of the line, another at the end, and one stationed right in the middle, guiding their little line up the street. It is such a sweet, comforting sight.

The warm winter we have had has given this little band a varied look and rhythm. One day they were moving along in tiny colorful sweaters and tennis shoes, the sun shining like it was springtime. They walked rather quickly for being tethered to a rope. Just a few days later, snow had fallen and the path had become icy. Now they moved like little robots, snowsuits causing a stiff-legged march up Douglas Avenue. I imagined the swishing sound of the waterproof material making sand block rhythms as they moved. Each kept pace with the nearest child as they moved along held safe and secure by the length of rope that connected them.

Rope. I have thought about that rope many times over the last few days. I have been thinking about the times when it would feel awfully good to be walking along holding onto a rope, safe and visibly connected to the nearest breathing human in sight. There are many people I know right now who would do well being able to reach out and hold onto just such a rope. The knowledge that they are held together, not alone, with another human being would bring such comfort. As I have been remembering this band of rainbow children, I have wished a precious rope for these dear ones.

Some time ago I read a book by Rabbi Lawrence Kushner called Invisible Lines of Connection: Sacred Stories of the Ordinary. It was a wonderful compilation of the ways in which we are held together on a daily basis by unseen connections with the Holy and one another. It is a book whose intention was, I believe, to remind us that we are always connected whether we choose to remember or not. Connected to those we know and those we don’t. Connected to the movements and seasons of this amazing Creation. Connected to the One who dreamed us and breathed us into being.

Perhaps today is a day when you are feeling particularly alone. It could be a day when life threatens to overwhelm. Or it may be a day when you are aware of someone else who is in this very place of believing that they are moving along life’s path untethered to anyone or anything that can bring hope and comfort. Wherever you are on your journey this day, I invite you to imagine the small tribe of brightly clothed children as they walk along holding the rope. If you need to hold on, reach out. If you can offer a helping hand, make room in the slow moving band for just one more.

In the end, I believe, this is our real work.

A friend gave me a beautiful calendar over the holidays. It was created by the Sisters of St. Joseph and is filled with not only beautiful artwork but equally beautiful poetry. Each day contains a thought or affirmation to take with you as you go about your walk in the world. Here is just a sample: ‘Examine your life-are you loving it?’ ‘Work from your heart.’ ‘Work like God – no task too humble. No scheme too grand.’(R. Doughty)’ Commit to a daily meditation practice.’ ‘ Embrace courage like the Magi.’

I have this calendar in a place where it is present to my morning ritual of getting out the door. As I make lunch, eat breakfast, brush my teeth, and comb my hair, this calendar of invitations is never far away. I am happy to say that most mornings I have the good sense to read the wisdom that is written in the tiny inch-square space that makes up an outline of a month. A month of my life. Thirty or more days that are pure gift and never to be lived again.

Somedays when I look at the little box filled with words I am amazed at how much I needed the message that was right there for the taking. As I walk away from the calendar I tuck that little seed into my mind for germination. Truth be told sometimes I never think of the exact words again but the seed is there just the same. Work from my heart? Gotcha. Embrace courage like the Magi. I’m on it. Am I loving my life? Well,am I? (Are you?)

Having these little post-its clinging to me all day can counteract the other lint that can get stuck to my body on a normal day. If I have had the radio on in my car I can have all manner of negativity riding on my clothes, trying to seep in to find a place on my skin. Messages of greed and scarcity and never enough.  Advertisements for all the things I need to be ‘my best’, ‘most beautiful’, ‘successful’ self. Coarse and angry words flung from one person to another without thought for the damage they produce. Even if the words were not aimed at me, I have now been privy to them and they live in my psyche. Before I know it they could creep into my heart. What then?

Have you ever thought about all the words and messages that come your way in any given day? Are they messages that build up or tear down? Are they words that call you to your best self or do they allow you to align yourself with all the angry messages so often spoken? Are the phrases that cling to your coat ones that help bring about the common good?

I am thankful for this calendar which reminds me that I have a choice as to what guides my daily walk. I can choose to work like God and be a humble mover in the world. I can also make a choice to try to create a grand scheme to dismantle the harsh and hurtful words that can make up our public discourse.

In these final days of January, before I turn the calendar’s pages to see what February holds, I am going for the Grand Scheme. I invite you to join me…….

In keeping with our upcoming theme for Lent of ‘Breaking’, I have been scouring books of poetry and prayers. I have been searching for the words that can define the brokenness that is a part of what it means to be human. I have also been collecting words that speak about the ways in which the breaking that inevitably happens in individuals and communities, is also the place where transformation and light shines through.

This afternoon I opened a book by biblical scholar and theologian Walter Brueggeman entitled Prayers for a Privileged People. It was a book that had been passed on to me some time ago and I had not had a chance to look through it yet. The first page I turned to was a prayer called “The State of the Union”.  How odd is it that I turned to this prayer the night after the president delivered this message? All day long as I had been driving from one place to another, I had heard the speech replayed and also took in some of the many commentaries. Some, of course, thought the speech brilliant while others found it contemptible. Such is the nature of our public discourse lately.

I won’t quote the whole prayer here but will just refer to one line that reached out from the page and grabbed me by the throat: “We will embrace the buoyancy of the speech with gladness and with great dis-ease, because we know better. We know better because our Lord has told us about the lame and the blind, the hungry, the homeless, the poor, the prisoners, the ones who thirst. And we are in touch, by our baptism, with them.” 

Over the years I have done a fair amount of thinking and reflecting upon baptism. Probably even too much time trying to make sense of the words we have attached to this sacrament held tightly by many, loosely by others, not at all by some. Seeing the reference to baptism in a prayer about the state of the union address was just so surprising. Certainly, not all those who are a part of this great nation practice this ritual or recognize its significance to those of us who do.. While most faith traditions have some form of welcoming people in or even absolving them of past wrong doings, baptism specifically is held by those in the Christian household. The phrase in the prayer continued to nag at me.

Later in the evening, I was thinking about what it is that I have come to hold most prominently about baptism. In this act of community, we affirm that what makes up most of our physical being, our bodies, is water. We are 60-80% water, depending upon which statistics you read. We all know that we can survive a long time without food but a very short time without water. We need to constantly be returning to our earth ‘home’ its most significant element: water. We all also entered this world after swimming in the water of our mother’s womb. In baptism, we can claim that the Holy One affirms this essential element that is our form, our sustenance and our being and delights in our birth and presence in the world. In baptism, we affirm that we are a ‘yes’ of God in the world.

And so, as we continue to grapple with what it means to be a nation with such differing ideas of who we are, one thing that can truthfully be said is that we are connected by the fact that we are all people made up of the same elements. Our skin may look different. We speak different languages. Our life experience has caused us to have a world view that defines the way we articulate our political, social and economic views. We call what we believe to be the ‘More’ in different ways or not at all.

But the water that flows through our veins and muscles, that feeds our thirst and keeps our bodies going is the state of our union. Whether we name the ways we honor this as baptism or something else, or whether we think of it seriously or not, is in some ways moot. The water that flows through me, water I see as a gift from God, is the same as that which flows through the homeless man standing at the corner,sign in hand, and the executive looking out from his penthouse view on the city at his feet. The water that flows in our rivers and oceans and is absent from those in countries sick with drought unites us all in need and want and abundance. Each time another new one slips from the waters of birth into the world, another brother or sister joins the union.

And now the question becomes how will we honor and hold in trust this state of union to which we are all a part? Whether we choose to be or not?

It is a sobering and exhilarating thought.

On my daily drive to work, I pass by a church whose message sign sits in a prominent, very visible place along a winding and scenic drive. It also is poised right at a crossroads of stop signs. It is ‘prime real estate’ for advertising what is going on in the life of this church. Many churches would be envious of such a good spot for attracting people, for telling their story. This particular church sign does not have any of those catchy and sometimes controversial messages meant to stick in your brain all day. It simply advertises the time of the worship service and education hour. It also has the message that its ‘Thanksgiving Service’ will be at 10:30 a.m. It has had this message since November.

Now I realize to admit that this has been driving me crazy says so much more about me than it does about this church. I am reminded of all the times in my own church when events or services have been listed incorrectly. There is always someone…..usually more than one….who calls or emails to let me know about it. And then my mind also goes to the idea that they have been missing telling people about all the other things that have been going on SINCE Thanksgiving Day. I want to know who is in charge. See. This clearly is about me and my control issues!

Last week as I once again passed the sign for Thanksgiving worship, a thought crossed my mind. What if instead of allowing this to bug me, I would see it as an opportunity to think of everyday as Thanksgiving Day? And at 10:30 a.m., or at least when I passed the sign, I would offer a prayer of gratitude? This would help me create an order and intention out of what is, in my opinion, a neglected opportunity.

I began to think of all the things that happen each day for which I am grateful. The first steaming cup of coffee. Oatmeal smothered in brown sugar and those enormous blackberries I happened upon at the market last week. The laughter and playfulness of the children standing at the bus stop outside our house. The snow covered nose of the big black dog that shares our home. A warm car. The luxury of seat heaters. Smart wool socks. The smile of the person who is stopped at the same red light and happened to catch my eye. Trees that stand strong and tall against the rising, winter sun. The colors of the morning sky……black, blue, pink, violet, gold. My own two legs that move me through my day. The presence of my family moving in their own distinctive ways through the house in the morning.

All this gratitude and I have barely moved into the first hours of a day. A day that promises to be full of things I have planned and those that will surprise me. It made me think of one of my favorite songs by Minnesota singer/songwriter Ann Reed whose final lyrics are:

“A day that’s remembered
In a small, sacred space
Walking toward balance
Praying for grace.
Gather my blessings
Like the gifts that they are
Place them quite gently in my grateful heart.”

Which of course is what the seemingly neglected church sign had caused me to do. I had created a Thanksgiving Service in my grateful heart. It wasn’t November. Or the designated fourth Thursday of that month ‘set aside’ to give thanks. It was an ordinary day like any other. But my heart was overflowing.

Makes you wonder doesn’t it? Maybe that church is not being neglectful at all. Just sneaky. Maybe they are trying to help people see every day as Thanksgiving Day.

Well, they got me.

The cold has finally descended on Minnesota. There is not much snow to speak of but the temperatures have conspired to remind us where we live and what we are made of. This morning as I walked out to roll the garbage can to the curb for its pickup later today, I had that feeling of my airways freezing that I have yet to experience this winter. I smiled as much as my frozen cheek muscles would allow. So, I suppose it is time to settle in and remember the gifts of cold, frosty winter life.

Yesterday morning at our house we were offered just such a gift. As we were busy getting ready for a full day ahead, my husband paused on the landing of our upstairs hallway. “Did you see this?”, he asked. Unsure of what he was talking about I walked the few steps into the hallway to catch a glimpse. He was standing by the window that is directly at the top of the stairs. The window glass, itself a kind of victim of winter’s harsh winds, was swathed in what at first glance looked like lace. It was so incredibly beautiful and intricate we both just stood there taking in this gift of winter. Its patterns seemed impossible. How could something so beautiful be created without intention?

Now there was a question to carry around for the day! I have no idea how ice crystals or patterns form. Whatever Science class I took back in the day that explained this probably went right over my head. I was busy anticipating English class or choir. Yesterday morning I regretted my single mindedness wishing I understood how the combination of water, condensation, cold air and sun could create such an amazing pattern, such a work of art.

You see, the pattern not only looked like lace but also like a tree. A tree in the forest of the Winter Queen. The patterns had formed as if painted on the glass with some unseen hand who knew just what we needed to wake us up on a frigid morning. Just what we needed to send us out into the world with praise on our lips and awe in our hearts. Just what we needed to remind us that there is a creative Hand in the world that is not ours.

Later in the day I thought of all the other patterns in this wide and wonderful world that may seem to be without intention. The center of a tulip for instance as it breaks forth in fireworks or a newborn’s feathery eyelashes. The way in which the sun can reflect off one of the cut glass ornaments I keep hanging on a curtain in our living room, creating tiny rainbows all over the walls just as the sun is setting each day. The rivulets of water that spin and then spiral over the rocks in a stream.

It is easy for me to get caught up in the things I can understand and make sense of in some ordered way. But every now and then it is good to have a wake up call that reminds me of all the wonders I cannot, and will never be able to understand. That is where awe walks in to take up residence and I am once again reminded of being a tiny part of a Universe that continues to expand and amaze. In that instant I am reminded of my work here: To stay awake. To notice. To be amazed. To tell the story. To be filled with gratitude.

There are many experiences that can remind us of the treasures of winter. For those of you reading this who are also experiencing the first, true rush of freezing temperatures, my hope and prayer is that you are offered a gift of winter this day. Keep your eyes and heart open for the lace that is being spun all around. If we have eyes to see.