Our vocation is the work we do, I believe, because we must. Sometimes we are paid for this work. Other times, this is the work we do at the end of the day, after our paid job, because it is the work that calls to our heart, the work that will not be done, cannot be done by any other person. Our vocation is the work that brings us energy, buoys our creativity, makes our heart sing, brings a smile to our face and joy to our voice.

What is your vocation? This is a different question, I believe, from 'what do you do?' many people do not have the blessing of having their paying work also be their vocation. But somehow, I think, we are all called toward something that connects us with the gifts that are planted within us through our birth, our DNA, our life circumstance, our landscape. We can perform a job but we must live our vocation.

Thomas Merton's words and thoughts on how to live life always pull me back from the brink of doing too much of what seems to be required of me to what is my vocation.

"Discovering vocation does not mean scrambling toward some prize just
beyond my reach but accepting the treasure of true self I already
possess. Vocation does not come from a voice out there calling me to
be something I am not. It comes from a voice in here calling me to be
the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given me
at birth by God."

 Today I find myself pondering my vocation. Perhaps it is the time of year, November, that drear month of least light that is conjuring up this self reflection. Or perhaps it is a time of life or even looking forward to some yet to be written New Year's resolutions. Whatever the cause I am thankful for it. Each of us probably need to do more self reflection lest we find ourselves caught up too much in the urgent while forgetting the important. Vocation is important work. It is indeed the most important work, the fulfillment of 'the original selfhood given me at birth by God.'

Wherever you are on life's path, my prayer is that you have time today to reflect on your vocation. Are you living your life by the rules, needs, demands of some outside force, neglecting the inner voice that urges you toward the work that brings you joy? Or are you holding with pride and gentleness the treasure of your true self, nurturing it, supporting it, tending it? The voice of vocation can be a quiet call. But it is always a persistent one. We can try to drown it out by ceaseless, noisy activity. But, like the One who placed this voice at our center, it is, in the final analysis, a voice that will not let us go.

Have a blessed weekend……..

"Finish each day
before you begin the next, and interpose a solid wall of sleep between
the two. This you cannot do without temperance."  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have always been a good sleeper. I can usually settle right down between the covers and begin a gentle breathing that takes me into the Land of Nod. But lately I have been having wakeful middle of night bouts with thoughts left unfinished, words spoken too quickly, work that hangs in a suspended bubble above what should be my restful body. Everyone has these times. Or at least I find comfort in the thought that this is not a 'gift' being given to only me.

Last night was such a night. At 4:00 a.m. I woke and felt wide awake. At first I tried to make myself lay there and go back into some form of sleep. But after only a few minutes I asked myself why I was doing this. The anxiety that probably woke me only compounded and created an anxiety about not being able to sleep.

So instead I got up and came downstairs and spent a considerable time looking at the glorious, bright moon shining on our street. How peaceful our neighborhood looked bathed in such light! I felt blessed to be present to it. Then I sat down and wrote some notes I had been meaning to write. With the quiet of the house surrounding me, I found the words came easily. I was able to give the time and attention to these letters that I would not have found in the middle of the day. I labored over the right words to express my pride, my gratitude and my enthusiasm. Again, this all felt like a gift of time.

Sleep is important. With recent research we know this to be true. People who sleep well have healthier hearts, lower blood pressure,longer lives. But every once in a while it is good to be awake when the world is sleeping. You get a different perspective. Your house seems cozier. Your neighborhood can look like a Norman Rockwell painting. Those who have had children are reminded of the middle of night feedings that brought such quiet, nurturing moments of bliss.

Sometime this afternoon I may not feel the same about this experience of waking so early. But for now I plan to walk out my door as if I have one up on the rest of those who slept a full eight hours. I plan to carry the light of the moon that shone on my nocturnal wanderings with me as I do the mundane things this day will hold. I will try to carry the glow that fell on our ordinary street and all the ordinary houses. I will cherish the words given to me in the dark of night, glad that I have passed them on through the inspiration of midnight oil.

And hopefully tonight I will rest like a baby……unless the moon wakes me once again for more quiet work.

"The
act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn
makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our
equilibrium."

  ~Norbet Platt

I was in an amazing old Seattle bookstore last week. For a book lover it is nearly heaven. Books line the old brick walls from floor to ceiling. The weathered wooden floors show the path of all the bibliophiles that have come this way before. Tall wooden ladders can be moved on wheels to fetch that out of reach volume. While it is indeed a store, it has the feeling of an old fashioned library, before they became media centers filled with computer labs, back when the Dewey Decimal system still ruled. It was a store that was filled with mostly silence, reverence.

Keeping the silence was what two young girls were doing when I walked in. They were scurrying about, whispering to one another with the excitement you might find at a Hannah Montana concert. But these two preteens were in search of journals. I was standing by the shelves of these sought after blank books when they squeezed in front of me. They picked up each beautiful book with the expectation that 'this might be the one'. They put others back with a sure rejection. They whispered some more. Each had a crisp bill held in their delicate little hand. $20.00.

They opened the journals and saw the price. Their eyes flashed disappointment. "They are handmade" I explained."That is why they are so expensive." The girls turned and went in search of a clerk who led them to another bookcase of journals. These were more conservative, business-like. They picked them up and rejected the brown, black and even red utilitarian books. These clearly would not do to hold whatever stories needed to be written, whatever important observations needed to be recorded. They quickly headed downstairs to where a book reading was taking place.

Some minutes later as I made my way back to the same shelf filled with the multi-colored, unique journals the girls returned. In silence they chose the 'perfect' journal for their reflections on their sweet, young lives. I noticed they had more money clenched in their fists this time. They marched to the clerk and put the books that will hold their dreams, their observations, their deepest hopes and their most silly wishes on the counter. I was so pleased that the young,hip clerk treated them and their purchases with the grace and reverence he would any author. With journals in hand, they looked at one another with glee. "Now we begin." I could almost hear them say. My heart was filled with such joy watching those two young ones. Thank heaven for the adults who gave them the resources needed for their quest.

What will those pages hold in the journals of these young girls? What stories will they tuck away for a time in the future when they need to remember who they were? What hopes will they record so they can buoy themselves up on dark days? What secrets will be known to only those pages put together lovingly by an artist who understands the power and promise of a book of blank pages?

I can't answer those questions except in my imagination. But, inspired by their enthusiasm, I placed a my own journal whose cover was handmade paper, deep greens and rich blues with fanciful leaf prints on the counter. I plopped down my money and walked out with a new blank book waiting to be filled with my own stories, dreams, secrets. As I write in it, I plan to remember these two who filled me with such joy, such anticipation, such desire of the words that will find a home there.

"We must be aware of the real problems of the world. Then, with mindfulness, we will know what to do and what not to do to be of help."
~Thich Nhat Hanh

The sun is shining beautifully today. With the change in daylight saving time, it now seems brighter than it should be on a November day. Of course, at supper time, it will be dark and we will become aware of winter's slow creep up on us. For the moment,however, I am enjoying the light reflecting off the now bare branches of the large oak tree outside my office window. I will now begin my watch over its starkness, through the flurry of snow yet to come, and on until the ripe buds break open once again in the spring.

I ran across this saying of Thich Nhat Hanh, the Buddhist priest who always seems to stop me in my tracks with his wisdom, his way of molding words. I have a friend who, when asked the proverbial "How are you?", always replies:"In all the ways that really matter, I am just fine." I believe when he says this he is thinking of 'what the real problems of the world' are. I believe he is also affirming his life of considerable comfort and privilege. In comparison to the real problems of the world….poverty, war, homelessness, grave illness…..all is well in his life.

I am thinking of how often we approach problem situations with the tenacity of a surgeon. Instead of taking the time to discern what our role is, we jump right in, at the ready like a cape-wearing superhero. Sometimes this swooping in works out well but often it can only make matters worse. My friends in recovery know the beauty of 'the wisdom to know the difference' in any step they take. I think this is wisdom for the real problems and the smaller ones as well.

All that wisdom begins with mindfulness…which begins with slowing down,even stopping….which leads to deep breathing…which often results in clearer thoughts…which can sometimes bring a crystal,clear vision of how the whole picture fits together. And every good solution to any problem,real or small, must begin with such a vision. Don't you agree?

The dead, dry leaves on the oak are fluttering in the November breeze. Under the ground its roots are doing the only work they know how to do. It has stood in this place for many decades in its own mindful way. Perhaps today, it is my teacher.

"God, I can push the grass apart
And lay my finger on Thy heart."
~Edna St. Vincent Millay

I have been spending this week on vacation. It is a time I have looked forward to for a long time. I had hoped that it would be a time when I could clear out my head from a variety of things….work related, home-related, life-related. I had hoped that a change of scenery would allow me to push apart the things that seem to be keeping me from seeing with clarity. I have actually used that metaphor….walking through tall grass….to describe to myself how this time in my life has felt. I have also used my hands to make the motion of clearing the path so I can see what is ahead.

Unfortunately the days here have not turned out as I had planned. I have loved the little towns we have visited, the paths through the tall pines, even the rain-forest like atmosphere. But I am not so sure I am any closer to clarity than I was when I left Minnesota surrounded by large snowflakes falling, making the literal road difficult to see. I understood the danger of hanging too much on any time away but I did not, it seems, heed my own inner voice. Perhaps I had expected too much.

This morning we walked the beach of Guemes Island shrouded in another overcast day, the smaller islands held in a fog that caused me to squint to see their outline at the waters' edge. We watched two fishing boats cast their nets in 100 foot circles, pulling in the catch that will feed their families and grace the tables of local restaurants. As I narrowed my eyes to try to make clearer the outline of fisherman,net and boat, the out sight of a seal became clear to me. Its tiny head poked above the water, looking this way and that, until under the water it went again. Something about seeing this sweet, graceful animal in its native habitat filled me with emotion, touched my heart. It felt like a gift.

Tomorrow we will head back home and I may find myself still making my way through the tall grass. But somehow I believe that I will re-enter my life with new tools for whatever comes my way. I will be armed with the beautiful stones and shells I have collected along the beaches, treasures of memory. I will be surrounded by the strength of the forests in which we have hiked, touchstones of earth. I will find the still point within me that connected to the rhythm of the water we have gazed upon, mystery experienced. And I will remember the way the water broke so gently as the eye, the single eye, of the seal emerged from its water home seeing me, I'm sure, with clarity.

I had the privilege of worshiping in the beautiful Chapel of St. Ignatius on the campus of Seattle University this past Sunday. It is a unique. modern space that feels almost cave like. Its warm, white walls angle in soft ways making the acoustics rich and round. The music was lovely, made up of both students and several generations.

At one point of the homily the priest made this statement:"Everything is on the threshold of grace." He was using the story of Bartimaeus the man who is said to be blind. He comes to Jesus asking to be healed. It is a story rich in images and intrigue. It is also one of those rare and wonderful stories that actually makes an account of a conversation with Jesus. My favorite statement part is when Jesus turns to Bartimaeus and simply says:"What do you want me to do for you?" How straight forward is that?!

Bartimaeus wants to be healed from his inability to see. I can relate, can you? There are so many situations in my life, in the life of the world that need the shadows of darkness or the grime of confusion to be scraped away. In any given day I come upon a relationship or a challenge that simply needs me to have x-ray vision, like Superman, to clear away the debris that keeps me stuck. Like Bartimaeus, I am standing on the threshold of grace, waiting to be given the gift of seeing.

My other favorite line in this story is the description that Bartimaeus comes to Jesus 'in darkness of night'. There are so many places in our lives in which we travel in the darkness of night. We look around the edges for those places where light might break in…the gift of seeing. I believe the priest at mass on Sunday was saying that this is the human condition. Most often we travel in the darkness of night, groping our way to sight. In how we do our work, how we live our lives, how we form our relationships, how we plan for our future, we are always traveling in a form of darkness, seeing nothing or only a small part of the whole picture.

But in that darkness we are also always perched on the threshold of grace. Someplace on the edge of the shadows, we can hear that question echo through time:"What do you want me to do for you?" Being present to the question and the answers that then appear allows us to step over the threshold and into the light of grace. For each of us,like Bartimaeus, healing is just within our reach, even when we don't know it.

"You cannot travel the path until you have become the path."
~The Buddha

Over the years I have learned that there are basically two kinds of travelers. There are those who love the planning, the maps, the itineraries, scouring for the best deals at hotels or with airlines. These people, I believe, get nearly as much enjoyment from planning the trip as actually going. Then there are those folks who find great enjoyment in not really knowing what the plan for the day is, just getting up and wandering until a sight or experience calls out, talking to strangers, asking for directions, the surprise of new found places, all combine to provide the perfect travel experience.

In a meeting last week someone told of a man who simply got in his car, went through the drive-through cash machine for cash, and then just started out on the open road. Several around the table sighed while admitting that this is a fantasy they have. Others looked on with a sort of fainting, strangled, trapped look that showed their utter horror at such an idea. What does this idea conjure up in you?

It made me think about my own travel comfort levels, what makes for an exciting trip, what makes for comfort, what drives me crazy, what I can live with and without while traveling. I have to admit that I was one of those who have always wanted to simply get in the car and just drive without a particular destination in mind. Just see where the road takes me, what I might discover in the process. I'm not sure when such a notion came to me but the thought of it still makes me smile though I have never actually done it.

I realize traveling is a thing of privilege. And how we get to travel or don't get to travel is also a mark of a life of means. I think of those people I know who have not been able to choose the circumstances under which they travel life's paths. For them every day is the open road, with no destination in mind, no plan in place. Or the plan they had has been interrupted by situations not under their control. A lost job here, a missed bill there, an illness, a broken relationship all can contribute to a change of travel plans. 

What does your itinerary hold today? Where is life taking you? Are the plans yours or do they belong to someone else? A group of people from our church is traveling in Cuba right now. I think of the many plans that were made to make this trip a possibility. But I am sure that all the plans in the world have not prepared them for some of the many surprises and gifts of this journey.

Today,whether the path is smooth and well thought out or your day is wide open waiting for the surprises to arrive, my prayer is that you can find a way to be open to the possibility of the journey itself. And isn't that always where the true rubber hits the road?

"I learn more about God

From weeds than from roses;

Resilience springing

Through the smallest chink of hope

In the absolute of concrete…."

~Phillip Pulfrey

October is, in some ways, an odd time to write about pulling weeds. The yard work that needs to be accomplished around our house comes more in the form of raking and bagging the leaves that have fallen and are falling each day at an alarming rate. But I just saw a report from Balmoral Castle, the country home of the British royal family,situated in the highlands of Scotland. Now I am a hopeless anglophile so I am always drawn to anything that remotely mentions the royal family. The report included tours of the beautiful grounds that surround the castle and the interior that has not changed much for over a hundred years. But what caught my attention was an interview with the head gardener. In addition to showing the amazing geraniums that are a favorite to the queen, she said that often, when the queen is in residence, they will find little piles of weeds on the grounds where the queen has settled into doing a little yard work of her own.

Imagine that! The Queen of England weeding! Doesn't it just make you smile? Can't you imagine her down on her knees in the dirt pulling a stray plant that doesn't seem to fit in the scheme of the well manicured gardens? I love the idea of it.

It made me wonder if the gardeners, instead of being lax in their work, really left a few patches of untended areas simply for her pleasure, for her work. Because in the end, don't we all need to do a little weeding now and then? It is quite therapeutic to bend down and pull out what is misplaced and throw in onto the compost heap. I imagine the gardeners at Balmoral must know that the queen might benefit from weeding just like the rest of us. As she pulls out that errant thistle who planted itself among the roses, is she thinking of all the world's problems that she has no power to overcome? What about the situation in Palestine? In Israel? In Afghanistan? As she gives the Scottish equivalent of the dandelion a good yank, is she trying to rid herself of all the economic worries of her people, their unemployment woes, the latest escapades of the Prime Minister?

It is difficult to know if the queen's ability to weed is made possible through the neglect of her hired staff or not. But the one thing I am sure of is that we all have the need to weed at times. Even the queen.

So my question is what needs weeding in my life? What needs weeding in yours?

"This being human is a guest house.
Every day a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes

As an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

Who violently sweep your house

Empty of its furniture,

Still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

For some new delight."
~Rumi

It seems there is a certain time of every year when pain, suffering and death come. It is not always the same time of year but when it comes it seems to take up residence until it is ready to leave. We don't get to choose the time of year though it does seem that winter is often to be the most likely season. This year, however, it has been different. Late summer and early fall has held its share of sadness, of loss.

This loss that is present has caused me to reflect on the matter of what it is that heals us. What is it that brings a mending, a reaching toward wholeness that brings us back to center, back to who we know ourselves to be? There are many answers to this question: beauty, laughter, prayer, a child's presence,a brilliant sunset, bread or the sweet taste of any food that comforts.

I believe music heals us. Singing with others, having others sing to you, being surrounded by the fragile, tentative voices of other humans making the effort to bring music to birth. I am not sure if it matters what music it is, perhaps it does, but I am sure that in any situation needing healing, 'Silent Night' rarely fails to do the job.

Of the words that can heal us, I believe they must be spare. Perhaps there are sermons that heal, or speeches, but I have never experienced them. Most often in these situations there is too much space being taken up by words. But a poem, in my estimation, is what is needed for healing. Those few carefully chosen, labored over words, that fit together like a marvelous puzzle will almost always pull loss toward wholeness.

And the final thing that I believe is imperative to healing is community. The gathering together of loving friends, sometimes perfect strangers,like minds, soft hearts, to allow the suffering one to name and be named moves everyone to the edge of what it means to be human. In that energy that is generated by the collective breath and presence of one another, all are nudged to remember and reclaim the Breath that breathed them into being and continues to hold them in deep love.

I believe this and know it to be true because I have lived it and I am grateful.

"To the real mystic, the passing of the seasons is never commonplace. It is the repetition that finally, finally opens our eyes to God where God has always been: right under the feet of us." Joan Chittister, Sacred Moments in Everyday Life.

Over the last two weeks I have observed much worship happening. Almost none of this has been in church. Driving on Highway 13 which runs along the Mississippi River near our house, I have observed people standing on bridges and along the road simply looking at the colors of the leaves changing. Many times they are just standing as if in a trance, as if drawn there by something out of their control. While they may stand in small groups or in couples, they are not talking, they are looking, gazing at the miraculous show of life slipping from the leaves, signaling the end of another season. Perhaps there is nothing that need be said in the presence of such Mystery.

Yesterday in a meeting we were sharing what our favorite thing about autumn is. One person spoke of the smell of rotting leaves, the moisture they hold, the scent of the evergreens in fall. She said,"It always amazes me that death can smell so wonderful!" These trees, that bring oxygen to we lowly humans, put on the show of their lives as their leaves slip slowly to feed the earth once again. The brilliant reds, deep oranges, and mellow golds stop us in our tracks and nearly demand our attention, even our worship.

As Joan Chittister points out, this passing is never commonplace. The repetition of the seasons does, indeed, invite us to see God where God has always been:right in front of us, right under our feet. As I see those who are drawn to stop their cars and pay attention, deep attention to this passing, it warms my heart. The beauty of God has lured them from their frantic lives and offered a gift. The leaves are offering the gift of their very lives. It is the ultimate sacrifice. It is full of color and a wonderful scent that only happens once a year.

And there is nothing commonplace about any of it. Let us worship!

Have a blessed weekend…………….