Yesterday I took advantage of the beautiful weather and walked around one of the Twin Cities many lakes. All the paths were crawling with people overjoyed to be outside their homes at last. Smiling people and equally happy dogs bounced along the walking paths. Strollers carrying joyful babies moved swiftly past runners and those roller blading as they soaked up sunshine and fresh air. Long stored bicycles now sported helmeted riders using muscles they had forgotten they had. Each person seemed to be exercising the kind of freedom that is one of the true gifts of spring.

Nearing the end of my walk, I observed a biker taking over one of the many park benches that dot the lakeside. Sitting down, he called out to another biker still making their way along the path. ” Come, rest here.” he said. I looked to see the reaction of the receiver of these words. I wasn’t close enough to really see but it didn’t really make a difference. I had already heard the invitation and that was enough.

“Come, rest here.” The words stuck in my mind. I thought of all the people who would welcome the gift of these three, little words. Come. Rest. Here. Right here. I thought of the harried parent trying to juggle the myriad details of any given day. And the weary caregivers I know, dishing out food, compassion, patience, and love. I thought of the teachers and the restaurant workers and all the laborers who work long hours, often underpaid and under appreciated. My memory was flooded with the many hospital workers I have occasion to see in action as I visit people who are ill or have had surgery. So many who would welcome this simple, calming invitation.

And then I thought of all the places, besides the park bench, that beckon us to “Come, rest here.” All over this state docks will soon be moved into place and will take up their work of providing a resting place for those waiting to be healed by the glassy, lapping water of being at ‘the lake’. The front porch of my childhood, its glider, rocking chairs and swing that are always present to create the slow, comforting motion we knew as infants. Back and forth, back and forth. Easy chairs and waiting room couches call out, “come, rest here.” Laps and outstretched arms offer children and loved ones that place of solace……come, rest.

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus goes about claiming a special relationship with God by saying to those gathered around him: “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” What amazing and comforting words. And aren’t they ones we have all, at one point or another, longed to hear?

For those of you who are weary and long for rest, may you have someone call out to you, like the biker on the bench, “Come, rest here.” May you find an invitation, even if it comes from your own lips, to sit, to be in the gift that is the present moment. And may you find rest there.

Blessed be.

“If this world
Was not held in God’s bucket
How could an ocean stand upside down
On its head and never lose a drop?

If your life was not contained in God’s cup
How could you be so brave and laugh,
Dance in the face of death?

There is a private chamber in the soul
That knows a great secret
Of which no tongue can speak.

Your existence my dear, O love my dear,
Has been sealed and marked
“Too sacred,” “too sacred,” by the Beloved-
To ever end!

Indeed God
Has written a thousand promises
All over your heart
That say,
Life,life,life
Is far foo sacred to
Ever end.”
~ Hafiz,1320-1389

Being held in God’s cup seems a reassuring gift to me these days. I have found that the ways of the world are weighing down my spirit and I have been searching for a way to come up from the dark waters that seem to be rushing over us, to find an opening where clear, clean air can rush into my constricted lungs. As I listen to those in whom we have placed our confidence as leaders, take sides about how we give name and honor to those we love, I feel a sickened despair. When I think of the ways in which our nation allows fear to be our common food, I want to cry tears that will not stop. As I watch even our faith communities elevate violence to a sacrament and create laws that would exclude any of God’s beloved ones, I wonder at what point we will cease our never-ending hurt of one another. Plainly put, I wonder when we who call ourselves Christians will begin to live in the Way of Jesus.

And so I have been doing what I find helpful. I have spent time talking with friends, friends who may not be in the low-riding valley of life’s roller coaster right now. And I have been reading poetry and stories that weave beautiful phrases that lift my spirit. This poem of Hafiz did the trick. To be reminded of being held in God’s cup brings a healing balm. And to reaffirm that deep goodness I believe exists within each of us is grounding. Without ‘preaching’, that art that often contains too many words for me, poetry places just the right amount of syllables on my plate, allowing me to breath between the thoughts and find my way back to the home of myself.

This poem of the ancient Sufi mystic calls from someplace beyond time and wakes me up with his “too sacred, too sacred.” Affirming that this life which we have been given by a loving Creator is too sacred to ever end is, for me, the wisdom of the Easter story. The assurance that no terror or fear ever plays the winning hand, that no harm we can ladle out or legislate ever ultimately prevails over the sacredness of life, allows me to breath more fully, to have an optimism that is choice, not logic.

Yesterday, a group of dear ones I call both colleagues and friends, lamented many of the same situations that have been nagging my spirit. We spoke of hope as choice. We spoke of making the choice to walk hopefully into each day though we might have ‘considered the facts’ as poet Wendell Berry writes. Perhaps we do this because we are all church ‘professionals’ and we have been schooled in the ways of doing so. Perhaps we have decided to choose hope because we are of a certain age and to do otherwise would be simply too depressing.

But what I pray is that we have chosen hope because we know deep, deep down in that ‘private chamber of our souls’ that the secret planted there, the secret of the sacredness of never-ending life prevails and we can do nothing else but choose. Choose to hope. Choose to live up to the promises of God’s imprint on our hearts. Choose to dance in the face of death. Choose to speak,act, vote, pray, and live this life which is “too sacred, too sacred” to do otherwise. And that we will live this way, not only for ourselves, but for all people, for all creatures, for all the world.

Have a blessed and hope-filled weekend……….

“How strange and mysterious
are the ways of God.
Not greening, not flowering
may be a path
to the center as well.
Acceptance of yourself
as you are
and others as they are
is the true potting soil.
All growth starts there.”
~Gunilla Norris, A Mystic Garden

It is a rare person who, these days, is not thinking of planting, of growing things, of soil to be turned and seeds to be burrowed. Even those who would not think of doing any actual gardening are aware of the Earth making a stupendous come-back in these evolving days of spring. In Minnesota the past two days seemed to have taken a giant leap forward into summer with temperatures in the eighties. But we know that in a few days things will be back on track and the slow, methodical opening of buds and sowing of seeds will continue.

It is easy to believe that this is the way it always is. But anyone who has planted any kind of plant or garden at anytime knows that most growing happens in its own good time, under circumstances that often elude the most skillful gardener. I can’t even consider the number of dollars we have spent on our backyard garden, trying to make things grow, until we recognized that, the black walnut trees we loved so much, created a soil which makes many things impossible to grow. We had to accept that, if we loved the strength and the shade and the beauty of these trees, we had to give up growing certain plants. We had to accept the potting soil that is our yard.

Many times I engage in what I refer to as ‘wicked step sister’ behavior. I try with all my might to jam my foot….or myself…into a shoe or situation that simply doesn’t fit. I cannot accept that I can’t grow in every setting. I don’t think I am alone in this, am I? I also often forget that sometimes the not blooming, not growing, not flowering may also be a path to a newer awareness of God’s movement in my life.

In addition to this personal life lesson, it has also been one of the most difficult lessons, I believe, of being a parent. To trust that your children will blossom in their own ways and not in the ways in which you had planned for them, is an often humbling journey. To accept the mystery of their path and yours in relationship to them is one of those lessons that often needs to learned over and over again. I know I have certainly done my fair share of returning to the wisdom of that kind of potting soil.

For those who are struggling with a gardening diagram that may not be producing the blooms you had hoped. For those who are having difficulty accepting what is or isn’t growing in your life right now. For all those who wake every day unsure of the next step. May you, may I, continue to accept ourselves and one another with the compassion and love offered by the Holy One. May we continue to dig deep into this potting soil and begin to grow in ways that are perhaps strange…….. and always mysterious.

“Kind words can be short and easy to speak, but their echoes are truly endless.”
~ Mother Teresa

At church yesterday, I shared an experience I had had over the weekend. It was one of those blip of a moments that fill our days. This one, however, caused me angst and much contemplation about the ways in which, as humans, we have the power to hurt or heal with a single word.

On Saturday I headed to Target for four items I had written on my list. It had been a full few days. A retreat at Koinonia Retreat Center. A wedding rehearsal and the anticipation of an evening wedding.The fullness of the yet-to-be Sunday morning and Mother’s Day. I was trying to make short work of my needed errands. Getting out of my car I headed toward the entrance of Target, the two, large, bull’s eyed automatic doors greeting me as I approached.

Usually I veer to the right, the ‘In’ door in our culture. But instead I walked to the left and headed into the doors which opened as I entered. Coming out the doors to the left, a man with a minimally loaded cart passed by me and said, clearly and with some force:”Exit.” His words carried disdain, even anger, though I was not in his way and I did not cause him to even miss a beat in his gait. But his one word seared through me.

My crumpled list in my hand, I walked on into the store. But now, all of a sudden, I was filled with shame and hurt and the sense of having done something very, very wrong. I carried on an internal dialogue, trying to convince myself that in the big picture of things I really had done nothing wrong. For heaven’s sake, if this were Great Britain I would have been going in the correct door! I thought about what was going on in this man’s life that he could have felt the need to be reprimanding in such a way.

By the time I had placed my four items in my cart and headed to the express checkout lane(Less than 10 items please!), I had worked it out. Having paid for my merchandise, I headed out the Exit door. Coming toward me, a woman pushing a full cart as if she had perhaps forgotten something, was headed back into the store. “I am so sorry.”, she said. I simply smiled at her and said, “Not a problem.” It somehow felt like the tables had been righted.

Throughout the rest of the day and even yesterday, I thought of how that one word,”Exit” spoken in the way it had been, had had the power to undo me. I began to do a mental rewind of the words I may have at some time spoken that might be as hurtful. When have I found myself frustrated, angry over such a simple thing as entering the exit door? Have I spoken words or shot a glance that had the power to alter another’s day? I pray not but I know I have probably, at some point, done equal damage.

Now two days after this experience I am beginning to see it as the gift it was: a wake up call for civility, for compassion and for remembering to be kind with my words. All my words.

Even those with only two syllables. Like “Ex-it.”

When I open my eyes,
my God, on all that you have created
I have heaven already in my hands.

Serenely I gather in my lap
roses and lilies and all green things
while I praise your words.

My own works I ascribe entirely to you.
Gladness springs forth from sorrow,
And joy brings happiness.”
~ Hildegard of Bingen

Early yesterday evening I drove west of the Cities to our church’s retreat center for a gathering of three different groups from the community. Koinonia, as the center is named, is nestled in the woods on Lake Sylvia. I had been busy all day preparing for the retreat and had thrown my belongings and all I needed in the car, and in what has become my rushed pattern these days, headed west in freeway traffic. I inched along through St. Paul and over the Mississippi River into Minneapolis and finally made my way to the western suburbs. It felt somewhat a triumph.

As the freeway turned to a four lane highway, I began to relax and see the unfolding landscape around me. I had made this same trip in January past snow filled fields and frozen lakes dotted with ice fishing houses. The view was much different now. The soil of farm fields was turned and the rich, black dirt seemed to be itching to grow something, anything. The trees and bushes that lined the roads now sported the tiniest bits of yellow-green buds, that green that only happens in spring. Do you know it? The lakes now glistened with the evening sun, their waters free to move once again after months of being frozen in time, literally. Cows and horses moved lazily in the fields, periodically shaking their bodies against the ever warming air. Birds of one kind or another flew overhead and near the horizon, making their way to a new nest or a familiar home, stopping for a rest on this lake or that. It was like watching life be born before my very eyes! As I drove I felt all the tension and worries roll off my body. I relaxed into my driver’s seat and took in the show.

When I arrived at Koinonia I saw the birders were already out with binoculars. I later saw the amazingly long list of birds they had already spotted within only a few hours. As I unloaded my belongings into the room where I would sleep last night, I could hear the spring peepers singing wildly from the backwaters of the lake. I heard the far off cry of the loon, haunting and melancholy and yet a sure sign of life renewed, of spring’s true arrival. I walked to the lake to see the crystal, clear sheen that reflected the now setting sun. Overhead geese called to one another. More tension sloughed off my pinched skin.

When I went to bed last night, I opened a window so I could hear the peepers and the loons sing their nighttime lullaby. I drifted off to sleep held in the sounds of springtime bliss and slept like a baby. I was awakened by the same recurring melody with an additional descant added by other birds whose songs I do not recognize. It made no difference. Beauty need not always have a name.

Healing comes to us in many forms. This morning as I walked in the early morning dew of the woods, I knew that something had changed within me. All the stress I had been carrying, all my worries for the world, all I am powerless to change, had melted away. My breath was deeper, fuller. My heart was beating slower and, no doubt, my blood pressure was lower.

I had been healed by the Earth and its unfolding. I had been rocked to sleep by a reminder of the goodness of the world. I had been filled with a hope that is ours to grasp each time we reconnect with the rhythms and patterns of Creation. And like my Creator, I too can say, it is very, very good.

Have a blessed weekend……..

This morning I was awakened by the sound of a single voice calling to me from outside my window. With these warmer spring days, we had cracked the window open a wee bit so the sounds of the outside are now more noticeable. My brain had not quite focused on being open to the newness of the day when I heard the single, loud and clear honk of a Canadian goose making its way in the flight pattern that exists over our house. I shook the sleep from my brain and immediately heard the words of Mary Oliver swimming before me:

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting–
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

I love these words so. They are such affirmation to me. Their clarity and beauty connects me with the world in such a deep way. And to have heard that call while still lying in my bed seemed pure gift. I felt as if my place in the family of things was being announced to me: Get up! Walk into this day with a kind heart and a sense of purpose. Open yourself to the possibilities that are yet to be imagined, yet to be teased out of the minutiae that can become the weave and warp of the every day. This is your life. Embrace it!

All that from one honk. From that one pure sound I was enlivened by knowing that I am in league with Creation in ways that surprise and inspire. I do not have to be good or shout to the world all the wrongs I have committed. I have the task of loving what I love and it is blessed work. I have the job of telling my despair and listening well to the despair of others. As humans it has always been and always will be. The sun comes up and goes down, the moon rises and shines. And here I am. Here you are. At home in a world that holds it all and invites us to wear our humanity like a fragile, silk cloak.

Tomorrow morning may bring the regular, old boring sound of the alarm clock. Or, if I am blessed, the same sound I heard today may be my wake up call.

Hooooonnnnkkkk!

On Saturday night, I had the privilege of hearing our church’s handbell choir in concert. As always they did a lovely job and we were surrounded by the music of bells of all sizes and tones. I think I sat closer to them than I ever have and I recognized once again this crazy, nagging feeling I have each time I hear them play. You see, I came to realize some time ago that this particular form of music pulls on all the control issues I possess. For those who don’t know much about handbell choirs, each person is responsible for only a few notes. As they read the music they are responsible for only those notes and no others. As I watch them I think of all those other notes flying by for which other people…..people other than me…..are responsible for playing. It creates great anxiety in me! To rely on so many others to be ready, to be paying attention, to be listening, to actually play the notes they are supposed to play!

Now of course this says so much about me and not the art form. And yet I am reminded that it does mirror so beautifully the work we do every day. We get up and walk out into the world hoping beyond hope that others are paying attention to the ways in which they drive their cars. We order lunch and trust that the hands that made our sandwich were washed thoroughly. We pick up our phones and dial a number not really knowing how they work, how signals are sent, the many hands and indeed lives that are tied to our ability to call our children or coworker. We pick up a newspaper or read news online praying that the words are true and unbiased, that they are dedicated to providing facts that will help us make sense of our world. Each of these acts and so many more make up the single notes that are played by people we know and will never meet. The notes that make up the music that plays through our days and underscores our lives. Each represents an act of trust that people will pick up the bell for which they are responsible and that they will play.

Taken in this light, I feel my shoulders relax and my stomach unknot. There are bell ringers around me all the time, doing their work, work that I cannot do and for which I am not responsible. These are people whose skills and talents outshine my own by spades and I can trust that they will help make the daily music beautiful. I can also trust that even when they miss a beat or play a note out of rhythm, something or someone will make it right.

And that someone is not me. I have my own notes to play as do each of us. Notes that were planted in us from our birth by One who understands the whole musical score in ways that are mystery to us. Today, with shoulder relaxed and stomach calm,I will pick up the few notes for which I am responsible and will do my level best to play at the right moment, in rhythm and with great feeling. I will listen well to my fellow players and hopefully, with grace and beauty, we will all make music together.

And tomorrow, if we are blessed to do so, we will get up and do the same thing all over again.

Waking early this morning, I clicked on the switch of the coffee pot I had prepared last night before I went to bed. My alarm had gone off particularly early today so I might rise to watch the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton. I did this because I had also watched his parent’s wedding and his mother’s funeral, again waking early to make up the six hour time difference between here and London. Frankly, I had looked forward to it for weeks.

Now I know there are those who speak of the silliness of this obsession to watch a system, like a monarchy, play out, a system which our country actually went to war to free themselves of. I know there are also those who speak of what they call the terrible waste of money spent on such an event. Certainly, England is in the same economic mess we are and couldn’t this money have been spent in a better way? And the answer is yes. It certainly it could. But I see the same argument in this as I see every time there needs to be budget cuts in our schools and the ax moves too quickly to the music and art departments. As humans, we also need beauty and diversion and that which can lift us above the ordinary.

For me, watching these two young people on what may be the happiest day of their lives so far, provided just such a lift. I had already been shocked by the horror of the tornadoes that ripped across the southern part of our country. What to even do with the feelings of helplessness those people must be experiencing? In addition, I had learned today that a dear friend will no doubt die over the weekend and my heart is breaking for his wife who is such a dear one. To hold the beauty and joy of this couple on their wedding day alongside the pain and horror of the world seemed pure gift.

But isn’t this the way of life? We wake each morning with goodness and terror walking by our side as we make our way into a fragile world. We drink a cup of coffee,breathing in the rich, warm liquid, breathing out the nightmares that cling to our waking brains. We step out in faith knowing that others are walking a path of hopelessness and we feel desperate to help. We watch children laugh and play at the bus stop praying that today will be filled to overflowing with new discoveries. This living is a stew pot of extremes and if we are lucky, if we are blessed, we can choose to walk with some confidence on a path that has more hope than horror.

Today two young people chose to do an uncertain thing in the presence of those who love them while they were watched by billions of people they will never meet. They chose to commit to a relationship even though they know from personal experience that this kind of promise is risky, often painful, sometimes fails. But they decided to step out in hope and those of us who watched were somehow bathed in their enthusiasm. For a few moments, so much seemed possible. Beauty. Kindness. Commitment. Hope. Love. A future.

Of course, the ways of the world continued and there is much healing that is needed. But for those few moments I was able to glimpse the promise of newness not only for them but for all who make their way through this day. The promise of new life that might come out of the rubble of Alabama and the tears of all those who suffer this day held gently alongside the hope and love of a young couple taking the first steps of a life together.

This is life in all its fullness. To be held gently. To be savored. To be embraced with gratitude.

Have a blessed May Day weekend……..

” No pessimist ever discovered the secrets of the stars, or sailed to an uncharted land, or opened a new heaven to the human spirit.”
~Helen Keller

Leafing through a book today, I ran across this quote. Normally I gloss over things like this. I wasn’t searching for it necessarily but I found it anyway, or perhaps it found me. Perhaps the words found me so they could give me a good swift kick in the pants. I needed to be jarred into my truer self. The self that doesn’t carry a little tin of pessimism in my pocket ready to be hauled out at the slightest notice. I am not by nature a pessimistic or negative person but I have found this little cloud of ‘yuckiness’ that has been following me about lately. Much like that old Cream of Wheat commercial where the bowl of healthy, steaming cereal follows the child from breakfast table to the bus and on to school. Nutrients swooping in to fill stomach and brain throughout the school day!

My shadow bowl has not been so healthy or nutritious. Instead I have allowed my spirit to be dragged down by heavy, unhelpful thoughts to the point where I realized I have been going,for what seems like a very long time, without breathing. I have realized that I have been walking around so deep in my thoughts that the center of my being seems to be my furrowed forehead instead of my heart. Has this ever happened to you?

I have spent some time reflecting on how this state of mind, this way of being came to take up residence. Partly I am sure that I am simply mirroring the culture around us all. The negative and pessimistic opinions and words of the news and the world fly around and land like bad fairy dust, settling on shoulders and eyelashes and seeping into our brains. It becomes difficult not to be weighed down by it all, not to allow it to wriggle its way into turning us all from hopeful people who have a potential to help heal the world into naysayers who cannot be amazed at the secrets of the stars or the excitement of visiting an uncharted land.

As a person of faith, I believe we have great potential to help open up a new heaven to the human spirit. In some ways this is one of the gifts of the Easter story we heard last Sunday. In the midst of what seemed like a terrible tragedy, new life sprang forth to change lives forever. The sacred texts of most traditions continue to reaffirm similar life-giving stories. Pessimism rarely wins and never, in my experience, feels very good nor is it easy to continue for long periods of time without burning out or burning up.

So, right now I am choosing to breathe. Breathe deeply and allow the goodness that is the air filling my lungs remind me of this precious life through which I am blessed. I am going to imagine another bowl, a different one, following me around for the next several days. A bowl overflowing with the life-giving nourishment of compassion, love, peace, hope, joy and kindness toward myself and everyone I meet. I am going to fill my belly with its goodness and be about the work of healing the world.

One spoonful at a time. Over and over again until my own human spirit catches a glimpse of that new heaven. If you too have been eating a bowlful of negative mush, I invite you to join me.

Easter Sunday brought with it the glorious weather we have been longing for. Sunshine and warm temperatures illuminated everyone’s Easter finery. People wore big smiles as they greeted one another. Children could be seen in various yards and parks hunting for brightly colored eggs hidden in obvious sight in the still greening grass. It was indeed s beautiful day.

I began the morning with our Easter sunrise service. It is one of my favorite worship experiences of the year. There is always something mysterious and exciting about getting to church in the dark, watching others arrive with sleep still hanging on them, to do something a little out of the ordinary. And this year’s service certainly delivered that experience.

Just as we were beginning the service, I walked outside to prop the door open for the grand entrance of one of our guest musicians who would be playing the didgeridoo, that wonderful Australian instrument whose tones touch something deep and primal in us. A few people were entering at the past minute and we all were surprised, shocked actually, to see a coyote walking across the lawn and parking lot near the church entrance. That’s right, a coyote! In the middle of the city, only hundreds of feet away from a major freeway entrance ramp.

It was such a shock we hardly knew how to react. Many thoughts went quickly through my head. Where did it come from? How did it get this far into the city without being injured or even killed by all the speeding cars and trucks? How was it going way find its way to safety? My colleague who lives next to the church pointed out that a family of rabbits lives near his house. My mind then raced to the rabbits and their safety. All these thoughts flew through my brain as we began our sunrise worship.

As I welcomed the people to our Easter morning together, I shared the coyote sighting. Heads shifted in wonder and surprise. Then someone said loudly: ” Ah, the trickster!” Indeed, in the Native American stories of the Southwest, coyote is seen as the trickster who comes to shake things up,to help the people see things in new ways. After doing a little research I read that in one myth the Coyote also brings seeds of life to sow new growth upon the new world. Interesting.

Perhaps this relative of the dogs we love so much was simply a misplaced animal who had wandered too far into the urban chaos. All I know is that his presence caused many of us to take quick, surprised breaths, to sit up more attentively in our seats, to be open to what other gifts the day might dish up. Easter morning had provided an experience we had not rehearsed. Even those who had not actually seen the coyote with their own eyes told others about what they had heard. Much like the women in the gospel story we read in the hour that unfolded after the coyote sighting, people continued to tell the story of this strange and startling vision. We all carried into the day the message of surprise, confusion, new life.

If Coyote is a trickster, I think on this Sunday his work was a trick of the best kind. And I pray, now that his work is done, that he has found a safe place to make his home.