In the Christian household, this is the week we call holy. Holy Week. During these days leading up to Easter we attempt to remember the ways in which Jesus, someone who lived more than two thousand years ago, walked his final days, how he spent them, who he interacted with, how he staked his very life on his understanding of God’s presence in his life and the life of the world. Depending on one’s tradition and flavor of Christianity, the marking of these days look different but that doesn’t take away from the name: Holy Week. These days we name as holy move toward the holiest day of all, Easter. Again, depending on the faith community in which you travel, even if it’s only in a once or twice a year kind of traveling, the celebration of Easter has many traditions. 

But I think we can all agree that this year, 2020, will be a different kind of Holy Week, a different kind of Easter. This has had me thinking often this week of what we really mean when we call anything ‘holy’. I have been privileged to visit many places deemed holy. Cathedrals designed to point people toward an experience of what is Sacred, to lift them above the ordinary and strike their senses with something of the More. These places are often ringed with images in colored glass or artwork that attempt to tell stories of people’s sacred experiences. Stories of scripture. Angels. Saints. Walking through such places people often light a candle to mark that they have been in the presence of the Holy. I know I have countless times. 

Still other places, while not technically called holy, hold a place of holiness to many. Sacred landscapes that have been discovered, preserved, held in trust so we might be reminded of the Creator who breathed the Universe into being. We fulfill our role in that greater creativity by being witness, by standing in awe, by being bathed in Mystery. For me places like the Grand Canyon, Glacier National Park, the Isle of Skye, the island of Iona come to mind. These and so many more remind me that I am such a small player in the grand scheme of things and I would do well to tread lightly and with great kindness each and very blessed day.

These places are mostly empty now. Cathedrals, sanctuaries, some national parks have been shuttered as we try to do what needs to be done to stop the spread of an invisible menace that is killing many, causing suffering to others and those that love them, affecting us all in ways that are knowable and yet to be experienced. The ability to travel any place in search of ‘holy’ is impossible as we are seeking the shelter of our own homes, those places of ordinary, daily tasks of living. 

So, what is Holy Week this year? On Holy Thursday, Jesus gathered his friends and shared a meal, one that would be his last with those he loved. Before they ate he washed their feet to remove the dust, to show his love and humility. Never has washing been more of a saving, holy act than in these last days. Perhaps not feet…but hands, counters, doorknobs. Holy. Holy water. Holy soap. Holy washing.

On Friday, we would have gathered to remember and tell once again the story of how Jesus was tried and killed for his way of living out the love of God in the world. His suffering would be lifted up…will be lifted up…as we name the many ways people, all God’s people are living daily with the suffering of fear, pain, loss, grief, sacrifice, death. I only need look at the images of the workers carrying bodies from the New York City hospitals to know what crucifixion looks like. Holy. Holy caring. Holy exhaustion. Holy grief.

As we move toward Easter, the thread we cling to as we walk into the labyrinth of this faith story we honor this week, is that all that holiness leads toward a Home. A place where there is healing, hope, rebirth, resurrection, where the ‘we will get through this’ nods and says “Yes. See?” While it may not be accompanied this year with trumpets and bonnets and lilies, we can walk toward it with confidence because this is who we are and this is what we do. Our faith story includes those who have known hurt and healing, suffering and grief and have come to a place they call Home living one holy day after another. 

Holy Week? As any good Minnesotan would say, “You betcha.” Holy Week…holy days…holy moments…holy year. Here’s a link to Peter Mayer’s song that says it better than I ever could.

“The eye through which I see God is the same eye through which God sees me; my eye and God’s eye are one eye, one seeing, one knowing, one love.” ~Meister Eckhart, 13th century mystic

For many years I was a part of a book club that met monthly at church. It was, by design, a group for women only and over the years we read some amazing books. We read fiction and nonfiction, books that were aimed at teaching lessons, others that carried spiritual wisdom. The books we read were chosen by the group in a mostly random process and yet there always was something to be gleaned from each one. One year, perhaps because of that randomness, we realized every book we had read or were about to read was set during World War II and dealt in some way with the Holocaust. Though the books were wonderful we all agreed that we needed a break from such a steady diet of these difficult stories. Our randomness in following years had us looking more carefully for balance.

Regardless of subject matter or the particular genre, near the end of our time together, I began asking a question that became our way of bringing closure to our reading for that month. “Where was God in this book?”, I would ask. This question also started in a random way. I am not sure I had even thought through asking the question. It just happened. But once it did it became a hallmark of our time together. 

For some reason I thought about that question this week. What I remember about the question and its ensuing conversation was the variety of answers. I also remember that, over time, several of the folks talked about how they ‘looked’ for God as they read, anticipating that the question would be asked. As is always the case, we see the Holy with the only lens we have…ours. 

This week I think the question and the memories of those experiences came to me because I began wondering how people might answer the question, “Where is God in this story?”, this story we are living as we make our way through these days of uncertainty and this virus. This is a chapter in our individual and collective life stories that we didn’t see coming and have no idea of how it will play out. There is so little control we can have over its writing. And for those who think about questions of God, or whatever words might be used to speak of the Something More, all will answer using their own lens. Perhaps it is a question that some will only be able to answer when the chapter is drawing to a close and our stories are moving to some yet to be imagined new chapter. Or for some of us maybe we are, like the women in my book club, keeping watch for the ways the Sacred shows up and dances in the words and pages of the every day. Even in social distancing…and hand washing…in keeping our hands away from our faces…on empty shelves and shortages of this and that. Certainly in the lives of the suffering, the deaths and the grief that surrounds it all.

I know I’ve seen what I know of God in a multitude of ways over the last days. In all those faces of health care workers whose eyes are often only visible to us above masks of protection. Their exhaustion must be overwhelming. In the grocery store staff who try their level best to be upbeat and helpful in ways they had not imagined, which included one of our local checkout ladies who dressed like a butterfly one day just to lift people’s spirits and probably her own. In many of our leaders who continue to keep abreast of information that is coming at them fast and furious as they try to bring facts, compassion and a level head to calm our anxiety. In the dedication of teachers who are learning new ways of teaching so they might continue to serve those students entrusted to their care a few short months ago. And the artists and musicians who have been showing up online and on sidewalks, making art and playing music to remind us of beauty and all that has power to lift us above despair. So many people digging deep to offer a very piece of themselves for each of us and those who suffer. 

And I have not said anything about the crocus blooming purple outside my window or the birds whose songs are creating a choir to stand in for the human choirs that cannot gather right now. And the greening grass now showing itself as tulips push as hard as they can to prove to us once again that life can come from a cold, dark, hard place. 

Where is God in this story? Our story? My story? Your story? We can answer the question as we go along or when we come to a conclusion. Both are equally right and will be given through the lens we use every day. May we be blessed in the seeing and in the telling.

For more than a decade I have experienced and embraced pilgrimage. This has included leading several groups on pilgrimages to Scotland, Ireland,  and Italy, to the sacred island of Iona, the holy sites of Glendalough and Inishmoor, the birthplaces of St. Francis, St. Clare and St. Catherine of Siena. I have walked a part of the pilgrimage path of the Camino de Santiago and been privy to the highs and lows of that ancient pathway. This pursuit of pilgrimage has, over time, shaped my life and my way of seeing the world. It has allowed me to call myself a pilgrim…someone who steps out each day perhaps with a plan but one that can be changed in a moment’s notice depending on the weather, my stamina, what resources are available, who shows up to walk alongside and who can no longer share the journey. While this way of seeing the world is not for everyone, but it has worked for me and I have found seeing our life’s travels with this eye has always had me seeing the presence of the Sacred in the midst.

When my daily work was in the church I loved that my life was governed by the seasons of the church year. Advent, Christmas. Epiphany. Lent. And the very long, season of Ordinary Time. I have always seen Lent as a pilgrimage, as a mirror of Jesus’ own pilgrimage of self discovery in the wilderness. As we are now in the season of Lent, I began these days by picking up again the book by a favorite author Barbara Brown Taylor, Learning to Walk in the Dark. Little did I know how prophetic this title would ring out in the days that have unfolded. Walking in the dark. It is what we are doing, aren’t we? Though the Sun arrives every morning as pure gift our days are drenched in certain inability to see what the next hours or even minutes might offer. As we find ourselves isolated not only from the regular activities of our days but from those we often did those activities with, we are learning to walk in new ways. For some this has brought acts of creativity and making our ways through the lists of things we had put off for another time. Stacks of books have been conquered. Puzzles have been figured out. Closets cleaned. 

But for others these days are not so productive and are shrouded with loneliness and furrowed brows. Our anxiety is a constant companion and we try to stare into our crystal ball to predict an uncertain future.  Brown Taylor writes: “To be human is to live by sunlight and moonlight, with anxiety and delight, admitting limits and transcending them, falling down and rising up.” Depending on the day, we can embrace the negatives of this statement with greater certainty that its positives. And yet each day the balance of anxiety/delight, falling/rising is held out to us, hoping not for limits but transcendence.  To allow ourselves to feel what we feel and to be okay with that is also a gift. How we dig deep to tip the balance in the favor of creativity, transcendence and light is perhaps our life’s work right now. 

When viewed through the lens of pilgrimage words by poet Pablo Machado has been a mantra for me. Truth be told it has been a mantra for many months. “There is no path. The path is made by walking.” And walking is what I have been doing. Each day what is not forbidden is walking outside in the fresh air, being present to the spring that is itchy to appear. I can feel it, can you? While I know walking outside might not be available to everyone, I am reminded of the days I spent on the Camino when each day we dedicated our walking to someone and held them in prayer as we walked. Arriving at chapels along the way, we lit candles to hold our prayer in light. A good practice for the days. A good practice right now.

This time in which we find ourselves is a pilgrimage path we did not choose. Of course, this happens all the time in our sunlit, moonlit lives. Illness arrives. Death surprises. Relationships end. Jobs are lost. There is no map for these paths. It becomes a path we make by walking. 

If we are lucky…or blessed…we witness the face of the Holy along the way. As companion. As faithful companion. And light is shed on a path that seemed dark only a moment before. May it be so.

I have not written in these pages for some time. There are many reasons for this on which I may elaborate at some time in the future. But over the last few days I have been drawn back to this place I named “Pause” over a decade ago. It seems these days we are living are bringing their own pause, a stopping point none of us anticipated or planned to take. A pause that is filled with a tapestry of emotion and much anxiety. A pause that has many in a heightened state of fear and feelings so raw that sometimes we hardly know what to do with ourselves. Listening to the news and the rapid fire changing landscape that swirls around us provides what we feel is the information that we need. At the same time, taking all this in can have us walking in circles trying to figure out what we should do next, worrying for our future health or that of those we love or have never met, watching well laid financial plans roller coaster up and down. It is unnerving and perplexing to feel so out of control. It is as if the very air around us is pulsing with an uncontrollable energy…an energy that threatens to overwhelm us.

During all this, for some reason, I have kept thinking of the times when our sons would be in a state of frustration or anger that led to what might be called a temper tantrum. I can honestly say this did not happen very often but when it did I always felt as if I wanted to do something…anything…that would make them stop. Their tears, their hurt, their behavior was so painful to watch. The first time it happened I remember allowing my own frustration to rise with theirs as I tried everything I could think of to stop their crying or halt their tiny fists from pounding. I learned quickly that my entering into their frustration and anger only seemed to escalate what was happening. Over time I realized that the best way to help them and to keep my own heart from breaking as I watched them work out whatever it was they needed to do was to simply sit quietly and hold space for them, making sure they were safe and knew they were loved, allowing them to take control of their own emotions, their own frustrations and come to their own peace.

These memories have brought me a certain calm over the last days. I have asked myself what good it will do if I enter into the anxiety of the moment, whipping myself into a frenzy. There are so many elements of this global crisis and I have no control over any of them. What I do have control over is my own emotion, my own reactions, and the energy I put into the world. What I can do is hold the space. I can breathe deeply and send that breath into the world. What I can do is call people and offer kindness. I can walk outside and notice the change of seasons that is arriving without knowledge of the whirlwind we are experiencing. I can listen for the geese making their homing call as they return and watch for the early push of green from the earth. I can smell the earth returning to itself.

During these times which we continue to call unprecedented,  we each will find our role to play. Many people are working countless hours to mend what has been broken, to heal what needs to be healed, to right the ship of our world. For this I am thankful beyond words. Some have chosen the role of hand wringing and hoarding. Perhaps it will always be so. Others are using their gifts for caring and compassion, for offering what they can to be of help. The truth of it is that we are all in this together and at times our role may be to simply hold the space, quietly, deeply, bringing calm as best we can. 

The poet Pablo Neruda says this: 

Now we will count to twelve

and we will all keep still

for once on the face of the earth,

let’s not speak in any language;

let’s stop for a second,

and not move our arms so much…

…Perhaps the earth can teach us

as when everything seems dead

and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve

and you keep quiet and I will go.

Rain. It has been a particularly rainy spring and summer. As I write this the heavens are once again pouring down as water flows from downspouts and drains into the downward slant of our street. Many are lamenting this gift of the sky. Some label it is ‘the new normal’ as climate change lives more and more with us daily. Farmers are having difficulty planting on what was a schedule they had come to rely upon. Basements that have never been wet are feeling damp and have a certain unpleasantness. 

All these things are true. But perhaps one positive spin on these rainy days is that the landscape all around is particularly green. Green. Various shades of green burst out from yard and field, from tree and bush. Outside it is positively Irish in its greenness. Driving back from northern Wisconsin over the holiday, I allowed my eyes to take in the vast swaths of green that unfolded and thought about the physical response that gets elicited by the color green. There is such hope in its hue. Over long, white-painted winters we long for green. The smallest shoot of grassy green lifts the spirit out of the cold and sends minds dreaming of flowers and fruits to come. But it all starts with green.

Looking at those undulating fields reminded me of the 12th century mystic, Hildegard von Bingen, who wrote so beautifully about the color green, even using it to name the Holy, the Creator, the Sacred One. She often used the word ‘veriditas’ meaning ‘the greening power of God’. 

“O most honored Greening Force,
You who roots in the Sun;
You who lights up, in shining serenity, within a wheel
that earthly excellence fails to comprehend.
You are enfolded
in the weaving of divine mysteries.
You redden like the dawn
and you burn: flame of the Sun.”

I share Hildegard’s sentiment of the way in which green carries that creative, life-affirming, hopeful spirit. Looking around for symbolism that is associated with the color green, I learned that it is seen as the color of balance, restoring a sense of well-being and sanctuary. That feels right. And while there doesn’t seem to be any break in the rains that have held our summer days, I am thankful for the palette of green that is painting my days. It is a good reminder of more of Hildegard’s words: “The Word is living, being, spirit, all verdant greening, all creativity. This Word manifests itself in every creature.”

Though all creatures are not literally green, we all carry some cell of that verdancy within. Perhaps if we clung more closely to it we might live more fully into that sense of balance and sanctuary. We might speak more kindly, “light up” the difficult places and become a “shining serenity” to all we meet. 

As long as the rain continues, we are likely to see more and more green. I will take it as gift and a nudge toward a hope that longs to grow.

“Think of all the beauty still around you and be happy.”
Anne Frank

A few weeks ago I read a review of Ross Gay’s book, The Book of Delights. The author had chosen to write a daily essay about something that had delighted him beginning on his birthday until his next natal day appeared on the calendar. I was intrigued and ordered it and I found it to be filled with short, delightful(sorry!) snapshots of ordinary events taking on extraordinary light. It caused me to wonder what I might pay attention to on a daily basis that would widen my lens on the world as well. And the first word that came to my mind was ‘beauty’. Focus on beauty. Look for beauty. Be on the hunt for experiences of beauty.  It seemed a noble effort so I bought a notebook to keep track of daily encounters with what, at least to my eye and experience, constituted beauty.

There were many reasons for beginning such a process not the least of which is, I believe, the very act of being intentionally focused on any particular thought brings more of that very thing into our lives. Of course, this goes both ways. When we focus on negatives it seems unpleasant experiences and people show up with greater regularity. At least, I have found that to be true. And when I choose to have a positive outlook more positive experiences, joyful encounters litter my day. With so much in our airwaves and in the world tending toward the mean-spirited and hurtful, it seemed a wise thing to try to balance it all with an honest pursuit of beauty.

John O’Donohue, a never-ending source of inspiration to so many, wrote in his book entitled Beauty: “Sometimes beauty is unpredictable; a threshold we had never noticed opens, mystery comes alive around us and we realize how the earth is full of concealed beauty.” Often concealed, yes, and in these emerging days of not-quite summer also in your face. At least that has been my experience as I have walked through neighborhoods and along rivers and lakes. There is a showiness of beauty that has, at times, had me feeling a little giddy! Irises are showing their shades of purple and yellow into the ever-increasing sunlight of June. They are such a regal flower and, in this northern climate after such a harsh winter, they have a way of saying,”See. I told you it would be okay.”

Not to be outdone, the peonies are hanging heavy along the sides of houses so recently surrounded by snowdrifts. Their brilliant pinks and luscious white petals beg the passerby to stop, smell and linger. And the bleeding hearts are just about to end their early run on the stage of springtime garden theaters. So much pink pulsing into the freshness of each new day can cause something like heart palpitations.

I am trying to make a dent in my summer reading so in addition to The Book of Delights, I am also reading Frances Mayes new book, See You in the Piazza. It is a page turning romp through tiny, Italian villages off the tourist path as she chronicles the joy of art, food, landscape, food, wine, colorful characters and more food. At one point her husband says:” Can we go back to the hotel? I’m getting Stendhal Syndrome big time.” 

Stendhal Syndrome? This had me heading for the Internet to find out what this could possibly mean only to learn that it is a ‘condition involving dizziness from experiencing too much beauty’. Well. I’ll have a little of that please. Don’t we all wish we could become a little dizzy with seeing beauty? It seems to me it could be one antidote to the breathless news cycle that can cause a more unpleasant form of dizziness.

I am not sure how my quest for beauty will unfold over the next months. Though I have continued to have moments of awareness at the beauty around me, I have already lagged in writing about the various sights, sounds, and smells of my everyday encounters. The good news is there is, I believe, an endless supply of beauty in the world and so the call to be open to it is never far away. O’Donohue explains that the Greek word for beautiful is kalon which is related to kalein, which includes the idea of ‘call’. “When we experience beauty, we feel called.”

Well, that is a call I can answer. 

Everything is hungry. These are words that have moved into my awareness for weeks now. In the deep of one of the snowiest winters ever, I have had these words made visible by a rabbit that lives under our deck. As the winter dragged on and the available food became more scarce, the rabbit hopped out of hiding to search for something to sate its hunger. It ate all available weeds and grasses that still peeked out from the snow. And when that was buried it started to munch on our Winged Euonymus (Burning Bush) where the drifts of snow had created a ladder for tiny rabbit feet. After my husband added chicken wire to stop this buffet, the rabbit was on its own. That is about the time I started putting left over vegetables outside the deck door and stuck carrots out of the snow. Everything is hungry and, while I know I have perhaps created a pattern from which there is no return, I could not stand the idea of this sweet, vulnerable being going hungry. The plus was watching a rabbit eat a carrot just like in cartoons.

Words about how everything is hungry was reinforced when, during the snowiest times, we traveled to the desert of California to be stunned by the beauty of what was called a Super Bloom. Hungry…or more aptly thirsty…these dry, desert places had seen more rain than usual allowing the desert plants to bloom with colors that took the breath away. Purples, yellows, oranges, hot pinks, reds, all shot forth from brown and dusty ground. The landscape became a palette of color filling both eye and spirit, hungry for release from the monochromatic canvas of snow and ice. The plants of the desert had been fed and in turn fed those ready to be opened to the ways Creation stands ready to lift the human spirit. Always…always.

Everything is hungry. These words have been a mantra through these days the Christian Household call Lent. In these last breaths of this season that leads toward Easter, I have reflected on the idea that hunger is so much what this journey is about. Hunger for a way to be connected to the Sacred. Hunger for knowing what it means to live a faithful life, an authentic life. Hunger for seeing justice come in all the many forms and situations, in all the people’s lives whose hungers are of both body, mind and spirit. Hunger for a spirit of compassion that enfolds the whole of Creation. Hunger for walking in the steps that lead to hope and not despair, truth and not deception, life and not death.

The rabbit made it through the winter and is now eating the dead leaves that had been smoldering beneath the snow. The Burning Bush was not so lucky and did not survive. Once the ground is thawed enough it will need to be pulled out and something else planted in its place. The color and joy it brought to us will live on only in memory. Tulips and crocuses are pushing up through the brown ugliness in our yard and soon will flash color as thoughts of snow recede and will be forgotten. It might, at times, remind us of the color of the desert.

The gift of these weeks and these words has been a reminder of the hunger that walks with each of us. We are aware of all those around our world for whom hunger is not the metaphor of which I write here but is felt daily in their very bodies. Hunger comes in many forms both physical and mental and spiritual. It is visible and invisible, known and unknown. And so I pledge to be gentle with all I encounter this day and every day as I cannot always see the hunger of another any more than they see mine. 

But of this I am sure…everything is hungry.

Feeling the moist dirt
look for the sun
with holy eyes
take a deep breath
and remember:
You belong here.
~Rumi

Looking at the altar draped in purple cloth and candlelight, I noticed two bowls, both of earthen tones. It was Ash Wednesday so one likely would hold the ashes that would be used to trace a cross of two intersecting lines on our foreheads. What was in the other? Because I have placed  ashes on many foreheads over time, I know for a fact that you need very little to create this mark that begins the journey of Lent. It would be rare to need another such large container.

As the person who was to offer reflection on both scripture and intention for this season came to speak, I noticed her shirt, more like a smock, was covered with planets and constellations. I smiled. This Sister of St. Joseph had a message to give and she planned to illustrate it not only with words but with her very clothing. After pointing to the small bowl that held the ashes she moved toward the larger one and allowed her fingers to sift dirt in a tiny stream through the air and back into the bowl. She spoke of this dirt as holding the bones of dinosaurs, plants, minerals, stardust and even other humans who have gone before. She lifted a small amount of the dirt once again to allow the enormity of that to sink in. “From dust we have come and to dust we will return.” This season which can seem sometimes dour and dreary begins with these words…words we don’t much like to think about. 

“These days of Lent are a call to life.” she said. The life that comes from all the ways we are beings of earth, soil, dirt, that place that brings life with the cycling of winter to spring. It was not your usual Ash Wednesday message. I can imagine it is not the message she most likely heard over her years in the church. But as she reminded us of this call to life that guides us during these days, she reached just a little further into the soil and pulled up a living, green shoot of a plant. It was the work of an excellent teacher and smiles broke out…even on Ash Wednesday. Her words helped us remember who we are and why we are here…creatures born of Earth and called to live life fully, wholly, holy.

With only one week of Lent under our belts, the days of winter are changing and promising a spring that will surprise us with green and color buried beneath snow that seems to have been here forever. But the Sun is high and strong and has plans for executing its power on even the tallest of snow drifts. The call toward life cannot be contained. It is good to be reminded. By the presence of soil, dirt, dust, ashes. From which we came…and to which we will one day return. 

In the meantime, it is about life. 

“It is one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold; when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”
~Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

March is a month that holds a double edged sword. Winter…particularly this winter…still holds us in its grip. And the promise of spring…increasing light, the cardinal’s song in early morning, buds visible on branches break into the every day. March is a balancing act of months. 

And for those of us who honor some sense of the Christian year, March also ushers in the days of Lent, those weeks when we reflect on wilderness and what walking in the wilderness can teach a person, how it can offer a place of revelation or seed of growth. Wilderness: “ an uncultivated, uninhabited, inhospitable region; a position of disfavor, especially in a political context.” So goes the definition.

Many I know, myself included, feel as if we have been walking in wilderness for some time now. Our very ordinary days are threaded through with the experience of wilderness. Values and norms we held as sacred have been abandoned or dismantled. Things like kindness, generosity, inclusion, compassion, justice, and truth telling seem to have fallen into the dark crevices of rocky landscapes. Rising up from behind hills have been words and acts of racism, cruelty, division, exclusion and sheer mean-spiritedness. Desert places cry out for nourishment, something to tip the scales. Those on the margins long to be seen and heard. Those of us who stand in privilege seem often helpless to turn the tides. From so many places around our country and our world this is the wilderness made visible.

And in the church I have loved for so long another wilderness has engulfed those who seek to be the Face of God in our time. Those who call themselves United Methodists have chosen to cast some in our community into wilderness by the act of exclusion. And in doing so, we are all turned out into the wilderness of our making to decide, as Jesus was in his wilderness journey, who and what we will worship. Perhaps these six weeks of Lent will lead us to a truer understanding of what this experience of wilderness really offers. How will we find ourselves come Easter morning? How will be able to proclaim resurrection in times such as these?

As for me, these March days, these Lenten days have me remembering the words I read on the first day of the month, March 1st, St. David’s Day. This patron saint of Wales whose life and faith are celebrated in this small country of my ancestors was also surrounded by his own experiences of wilderness as he sought to reflect the Spirit in his time. And yet one of the quotes most often attributed to him is: “ Be joyful. Keep your faith. Do the little things.”

Do the little things. When I read those words again on March 1st, something shifted in my chest, always a good sign of opening to what is deepest within. The wilderness can seem so overwhelming, so impossible to walk as a mere human when seen and experienced in its fullness. And yet the truth that every good and important journey begins with one step…one little thing…continues to unfold as wisdom. 

And so that will become my practice this Lent. I will seek to do the little things. Notice the little things. Praise the little things. Celebrate the little things. Take hope in the little things. See and work for justice in the little things. Encourage the little things. As March turns to April, I will continue one day, one step at a time…in the wilderness…holding onto the little things. Just as the enormous mounds of snow outside our doors began with one tiny flake, perhaps these little things will grow into something more than I could have imagined. 

It takes courage to grow up and become who you truly are.
E. E. Cummings

Each and everyone of us loves a good story about heroes and heroines. Our most central guiding stories are often about those who have shown courage in the face of all kinds of situations. Hearing how another has overcome fear, unimaginable odds, terrible circumstances gives each of us renewed spirit and fills us with the breath of inspiration. I have been thinking of courage…what it is…what it means…how to attain it…over the last days. It was not any particular, Hollywood vision that caused this mulling over the act of courage. Instead it was a scene I encountered last week while walking across the Ford Parkway Bridge between Minneapolis and St. Paul. I stopped to look over the edge of the bridge at the presence of the river and the ice formations moving and changing shape right before my eyes and then I noticed this…

I stepped closer to the bridge railing and allowed my eyes to focus on the shape of…could it be?…footprints etched in the floating ice. They took my breath away! Who had done this? Since I walk along the Mississippi River with regularity, I know that there has not been many times this warm winter when the ice was solid across. How had this person maneuvered these shifting ice floes? I felt my stomach lurch at the idea of it, looking from the height where I was suspended, I felt my legs go a little weak. Since the main definition of courage is “the ability to do something that frightens one” I knew that whoever had the ability to do this river walking was filled with more courage than I could ever muster. At this point some might also be calling this behavior other words and yet…

What brings any of us to acts of courage? Recently I have been spending some time with second graders who struggle with reading. I am humbled by the courage they bring, week after week, as they try to make sense out of black slashes on white pages. Watching their little brows furrow and their minds search, it is some inner courage…and a large dose of hoping to please an adult…that keeps them coming back to the page. I think of all the students who exhibit such courage to face odds that frighten them to become who they truly are, as E.E. Cummings proposes.

It does take courage to become who we truly are, to reach for our deepest potential. Author and amazing person Brene Brown reminds us that: “Courage is a heart word. The root of the word is cor – the Latin word for heart. In one of its earliest forms, the word courage meant ‘To speak one’s mind by telling all one’s heart.’” While over time we have moved the definition to be more about heroics, originally it meant to follow the pull of the heart and to live into the truth of self for all to see.

The person who made their footsteps visible on the ice of the mighty Mississippi may not have been having a ‘heart’ experience. But they were walking above rushing, frigid waters that threatened to pull them under. And though you may not be able to tell from these photos, they were also walking upstream. Something those who exhibit courage must always do. They were also exhibiting an enormous sense of trust in their own ability and the strength of the ice to hold them. I can imagine their heart was pumping with an exhilarating force as they made their presence seen in the icy path. Certainly this is one physical reaction to living with courage.

Of course, many of us have been watching the news with tears of relief and joy over the last days as a young girl who seemed lost to the world summoned the courage to escape a situation every parent and grandparent fears, that of having a child taken, kidnapped. The full bodied gratitude of an entire community can be felt in both Wisconsin and Minnesota and, indeed, across the nation. It was the kind of ending that everyone hoped for, prayed for, longed for, tried to imagine. Courage? How can it be called anything else? And fueled and filled with ‘cor’, heart so large and full that even those who have never met her are lifted above the tiny, little details of their ordinary day to remember that there is a depth of spirit within each of us that beats with such power to reach toward the fullness and goodness of what it means to be human. We cannot know the sense of rushing, cold waters of fear that this young one has experienced. It is almost too much to try to imagine. What we can do is think of the heart full of desire and hope and spirit that allowed her to make footprints that led her to freedom and the arms of those who love her.

Courage. Boundless courage.