"I am a part of all I have read."  ~John Kieran

Once a week I go to the library. Going to the library has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I went there with my mother as a child and spent countless hours there as a teenager. In college, I had a regular ‘nook’ I holed up in, reading and drinking coffee till the wee hours before heading back to my dorm. When our children were little we began going to the library before they could walk. I have a wonderful memory of our oldest son sitting in his car seat while perched on the counter, my books for the week being checked out by the librarian. As she leaned over to look into the carrier she remarked:"One day you’ll be a reader." And it is true. Yesterday I came home to find him in the backyard reading leisurely in a hammock, a welcome break I am sure from the intensity of college reading.

But my trips to the library this summer are with yet another generation. Our neighbor, a soon-to-be first grader and a new reader and I go weekly so she can return the books she has read and get new ones. She is registered in the Summer Book Club, that stroke of brilliance created by librarians to ensure that children continue to read during the summer months.Much time and creativity is invested in catchy themes, rewards of stars and pizza coupons to get children to sign on to a marathon of summer reading with the hope of returning them back to school in the fall with not too much progress lost. Each week she arrives at our door, book bag in hand, and we head off. Everything about the library is new to her. She asks questions about the computers, what it means to ‘renew’ a book, what a ‘fine’ is, and uses her library card with the pride of an American Express Gold Card holder.

Last night as we turned the corner onto the street of the library, her excited voice echoed from the safety of the backseat:"There it is! I love the library!" How could my heart not fill with warmth and my eyes with tears? Another reader is born. Another reader who will enfold the stories of courage and hope into her life. Another reader who will look up important facts and scan maps and dictionaries for places and definitions. Another reader who will be brought to tears by a story that is so close to her own life it is painful to read or be filled with anger at the injustice of what might happen to someone.Another reader who will learn that knowledge is power.

There is the bumper sticker that says:If you can read this, thank a teacher. True. I would also add:If you can read this, thank a librarian. That other underpaid, mostly undervalued group of people who now do what they do because once they were a part of a Summer Book Club. And from that moment on they knew they had to do what they loved……read.

This weekend promises to be hot, humid and stormy. Perhaps it is time to settle in with a good book. Enjoy!

No man can be called friendless who has God and the companionship of good books.  ~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

"I was there to hear your borning cry, I’ll be there when you are old. I rejoiced the day your were baptized, to see your life unfold."……John Ylvisaker

It seems Regions Hospital in St. Paul was a hopping place yesterday. Sixteen little ones made their way into the world in the course of seventeen hours. As I read this story in the morning paper, I tried to imagine the hallways, the waiting rooms and birthing rooms. I tried to imagine the nurses and doctors and other medical staff bustling about perhaps wondering what was going on. It wasn’t a full moon, it wasn’t a snowstorm, all good predictors for babies being born. It was just a regular summer July day….a little hot, a little humid, a little slow moving….except in the labor and delivery rooms at Regions. A whirlwind of birth was happening there!

I’ve had the blessing to be in the presence of several new babies recently. As I hold them and look into their uniquely beautiful faces, it is difficult not to think of the promise they bring to the world. Who knows but that the one with the funny little smirk on his face won’t be the one who brings laughter and compassion to a world that so desperately needs it? Who knows but that the one with piercing, inquisitive eyes won’t be the one who discovers cures for some of our most dreaded diseases? Who knows but that the one who gently sings under his sweet-smelling milky breath won’t be the one to create the next most longed-for symphony? Each little one….a bundle of promise, of hope, of possibility.

As were we all in the eyes of those who welcomed us to the world. It makes me wonder. What is there yet to be known through me, through you? How is the promise of each of our lives yet to unfold?

This lovely hymn of John Ylvisaker never ceases to make those who sing it well up with tears. As the lyrics continue on through all of life’s stages, it presumes that the Holy and those who welcomed us into the world continue to observe, nurture, affirm and support each of us. If only it were true for everyone who enters the world. If only each child was surrounded by the love the song describes. Of course, we know it is not so.

And yet today our prayer can be, at least for those sixteen who yesterday confounded and surprised the Regions’ medical staff, that they are held as gently by the loving human arms as we know they are by Holy Arms.

"When the evening gently closes in and you shut your weary eyes, I’ll be there as I have always been with just one more surprise."

Last week I caught bits and pieces of a song sung by John Gorka on the Morning Show on MPR. I hadn’t been actually focusing on what was on the radio. Instead I was probably thinking of the things I hadn’t finished yesterday or planning my words carefully for a meeting I was about to attend. When the words "I am writing in the margins" grabbed my attention, I realized it was song of longing and of war. The voice dreamed of being spared in a war he had not prepared for, felt ill-equipped to fight, one whose leaders and intentions he questioned. I would think this probably fits the description of most who have found themselves in that place.

As someone who is a perpetual student, I am always writing in the margins of books I am reading. Sometimes these words are questions or arguments I might have with the author. Other times there are words of agreement usually accompanied by exclamation points to show I have found a voice that shows I have found a kindred spirit. On occasion there is a note to look something up or check a fact or source. Writing in the margins allows for only the short, pithy thought.

"I am writing in the margins, notes to you and me, because the pages are all filled up, with what is yet to be…..I am writing in the margins getting closer to the edge….I am writing in the margins this day all I need to fix…." These are just some of the lyrics of this song filled with pain and yet such hope.

I expect we have all, either literally or figuratively, written in the margins of our lives. We make a mental note in the margins of our days to make a call to a family or friend we’ve lost contact with. We write in the margins of our hearts those little moments we don’t want to forget…..a child’s first step, a partner’s sweet word, the tender touch of a compassionate caregiver, a fleeting moment of hopefulness. We write in the margins of faith the prayers for the ones who are struggling with illness, fear, anxiety, injustice, despair.

Writing in the margins……not big, lofty thoughts. But the ones that really matter.

"Never have we pushed so many children on to the tumultuous sea of life without the life vests of nurturing families and communities, caring schools, challenged minds, job prospects, and hope."
                                                                              ~Marian Wright Edelman

I have several friends whose grandparents lived with them when they were children. Three generations in one household. I believe they are better for the experience. I believe those cultures where this practice is still the norm have something to teach us, we who ‘have it all’, we who maintain our ‘personal space’. I am reminded of their stories of a grandmother’s wisdom when a parent was too close to the conflict, too tired to really listen.The stories those grandparents told were woven daily into the fabric of the young people’s lives not simply caught at the once-a-year Thanksgiving dinner table.

It continues to be one of my beliefs that, as a culture, we have done ourselves a great disservice by segregating our generations in the ways we do. There is somehow a notion that each generation only wants to ‘hang out’ with their own kind. Of course, there are experiences I want to have with only people my age but the fullness of my life needs the wisdom of those older and those younger to hold up the mirror so I can more clearly understand who I am, what my life is about.

Our churches can be the place were this kind of segregation happens most intentionally and to the greatest loss. We segregate our children out to classes and away from worship because ‘they will not understand’. We relegate our teenagers to the basement and wonder why when they emerge as young adults,they do not feel welcome.We allow the wisdom of our elders to go unnoticed, untapped by all the other generations who so need their life knowledge. How did this happen?

As I have continued to read the Book of Exodus over these past months, it is clear to me that those nomads needed the ‘whole people of God" to make it through the wilderness. So do we. We need our tribe that contains the storytellers of the history and traditions that have held us. We need the rebellion and questions of our youth to propel us toward the future and to keep us honest. We need the awe and openness of the children to keep us living with joy and hope and a playful spirit.

How are you spending this day? Will you surround yourself with people ‘just like yourself’, from your own generation? Here is an invitation….even a challenge. Spend some time this day with someone older or younger and see what gifts might be waiting in that experience, in their presence.

"Everywhere, true elders will appear within the human community. Neighborhood by neighborhood, they will build bridges across the chasms of ignorance and intolerance that separate us. Thus they will take their rightful place among the young and once again define the terms of passage into adulthood. The children will be given a way to reach adulthood and the spirit of nature will be enriched by a fully human maturity. The ancient dreams of those who have gone before will be empowered in the councils with such visionary insight that the people will survive. So be it." Steve Foster, The School of Lost Borders

"When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free."
        ~Wendell Berry~

It is that time of year. The time when one needs to shake loose the stuff you’ve carried, the work that will not be easily finished, the thoughts that need time to ruminate. It is time for a northern renewal. Here in Minnesota that often translates to:"I’m going to the lake."

Our family leaves tomorrow for a few days at ‘the lake’, taking time to be with family and friends and a celebration of years of tradition surrounding the Fourth of July. It is an anchor of the year, one that is thrown out and grabbed with relief by hands and hearts that need to sit by the water, listen for the sound of the loons, and allow the cobwebs to clear out of a too-full mind. We will allow the presence of  towering pines and  white-washed  birch to work their healing magic and will return to the city ready to resume the work at hand. Computers will be unplugged, no-wi-fi there, only the slosh and slap of waves on the dock, only the presence of the stars that are only visible as city-weary eyes become accustomed to the night sky.

For the next few days I will ‘rest in the grace of the world’ as Wendell Berry writes and will resume writing here on Monday the 7th of July. May these days find you resting in the grace that is your world and taking time to mark the freedom of these glorious days.

Blessings…………..

"And Ruth the Moabite said to Naomi,"Let me go to the field and glean among the ears of grain, behind someone in whose sight I may find favor. So she went. She came and gleaned in the field behind the reapers.  Boaz said to the reapers, "God be with you." They answered,"God bless you." Ruth 2(selected)

Today I began my morning as many laborers do. I rose early and put on clothes I don’t care much about. I loaded my car with boxes, filled my coffee cup and headed to the field…… to pick strawberries. It was a beautiful summer morning, not too hot, not too ‘buggy’. Arriving at the field I found myself surrounded by would-be-farmers of all ages. Small children moved slowly, accompanied by parents or grandparents who guided them in their picking. Men and women picked side by side.Those who owned the farm moved among the pickers exchanging pleasantries with the workers. Each of us were picking these berries for the joy of it, for the experience of harvesting a bit of our own food, for the glory of the morning and because we could. We each left the field with the ripe, red berries scenting our cars with their sweetness and the stain of their color on our fingertips. Whether we made the realization or not, we were a privileged people.

As I drove away from the field, my eyes fell back upon the rows of green where the juiciness of summer      lay hidden under leaves. The sun was beginning to warm the patches and I could see the heat reflecting off the ground. Within a few hours the experience of picking these luscious berries would not be nearly as pleasant, the pickers not nearly as comfortable. Across the field, dotting the landscape were the bent backs of the workers.

And then I thought of all the bent backs that bring food to our tables. The workers who fill the fields across this land, gleaning and harvesting fruits and vegetables, many for wages that are below what any of us would work for. These workers are not people who are privileged to ‘play’ farmer as I did this morning. These are the ones who bend their backs to pick the berries I eat in January. These are the ones who kneel in the dirt and soil for long hours while their children work beside them or sleep in shade nearby. These are the workers who toil in the fields because it provides a life and livelihood for their families.

For me, this morning was a gift. I knelt and picked fruit I did not plant or tend. I give thanks for those who brought the strawberries this far and for the privilege of picking them. I pay homage to all those who day after day bend their backs to feed this nation, this world. Blessings be upon you.

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind.

‘Pooh!’ he whispered.

‘Yes, Piglet?’

‘Nothing,’ said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. ‘I just wanted to be sure
of you.’"

                                  
-A.A. Milne

                                  
Adventures of Winnie the Pooh

This is a warning: The following words may be disturbing. It began as a normal afternoon commute from Minneapolis to Saint Paul. At rush hour I never expect much….slow going, stop and start traffic, a little time listening to the news of the day on the radio. The temperature was very warm so I expected some stalled vehicles and I was not disappointed.

While crossing the bridge across the Mississippi, I noticed the movement along the side of a big tractor trailer truck. What was it? I opened my window to allow a little air into the car and got a whiff of, could it be…… ‘farm smell’? As my car inched up alongside the truck, there they were…..tiny piglet snouts poking out of the metal holes in the trailer. I could see the babies moving about, jostling for space. I was at once taken by how cute they were and heartbroken to see them confined in this way. I couldn’t stop myself from speaking to them out the window. My car moved past the truck and we continued our halting dance across 94 East.

Listening to a report on the economy, I hadn’t really noticed that the truck had moved far ahead of me. I had been distracted by other stalled vehicles and another pulled over by the police. A young man was being searched. I sent a silent prayer his way for both he and the officer. Who knows what their life holds? Soon I was involved in another slow down. This time as my view cleared I could see cars completely stopped. A woman was moving gingerly in the middle of the freeway reaching out toward the hot, black asphalt. There in the middle of the road was a tiny piglet. Somehow he had broken free through the narrow slots of the trailer. How? We all were suddenly suspended in time as this woman, who probably had never held a pig before reached down and picked up the pale pink, writhing animal. I don’t know if it was injured, just stunned or only frightened. Looking around, she gently lifted it into her car. I rolled down my window to offer my thanks…..for her bravery, her compassion. She looked equally as stunned as the little swine. What will she do with this little one?

It started out as a normal evening commute. But it became a time of prayer, a touch with adventure,a grand escape, an act of selfless compassion and a courageous rescue. Nameless woman, rescuer of pigs, blessings be upon you wherever you are.

"As God’s children, holy and beloved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, meekness, and patience." Colossians 3:12

Have a blessed weekend………………

"A wall standing alone is useless, but put three or four walls together, and they’ll support a roof and keep the grain dry and safe. When inks joins with a pen, then the blank paper can say something. Rushes and reeds must be woven to be useful as a mat. If they weren’t interlaced, the wind would blow them away. Like that, God paired up creatures, and gave them friendship."  Rumi

A toddler’s mantra is "Me do it!" When the experience of independence begins to dawn on us we have the need to push away from the help of a parent’s hand, a care giver’s guidance. There are other times in life when the need to assert our separateness guides our actions. We may all remember those times with fondness or with some pain. It is a natural part of becoming who we are meant to be.

But the living out of the wholeness, and the holiness, of our lives comes in the way we are in relationship with one another. The scriptures are filled with these stories, in fact begin with the very ways in which we are created to be connected with one another, Creation, the Holy. Those ways in which we seek out the wisdom of others, are nurtured by the care of others, are held in love by others, creates the soil in which we plant ourselves. Whether it is the relationship of family, which we do not choose, or friendships, which we do, our lives are lived out in and through interconnectedness. Separateness is illusion.This web is mirrored throughout all creation and out into the universe.

This reality is something to ponder as we wake up each day. It is something to hold onto as we make our way through the work and play of our days. It is something to give thanks for as we say our prayers before bedtime.

As walls hold up the roof, as ink and pen and paper create the poem, as the rushes and reeds form the mat for our rest, we are held together by all the pairings of our lives. Blessed be!

Stories of water are everywhere these days. Living in the Midwest we are acutely aware of those cities that have been devastated by floods, by rivers overflowing, by levees that will not hold back the water. For many, those in Iowa and in the farm country, these are the same people who just a year or so ago were longing for water to rain upon their drought ridden land and crops.

We are beings held together through and by water, literally. The highest percentage of our bodies is made up of water. We build our homes near water for what it brings to us. It quenches our thirst. It keeps us clean. It provides recreation and refreshment. Its tributaries and arteries bring things we need by boat and barge. When we travel to other planets and search for life forms, what do we look for? Signs of water.

In our scriptures and in other sacred stories, water is both reality and metaphor. The stories of Noah and Jonah, the parting of the Red Sea, Jesus walking across the sea of Galilee…..real water but oh, so much more. These stories remind us of the ways in which water can be dangerous and can overwhelm us….but that even in those times God walks with us. Noah reaches dry land. Jonah overcomes his fears and failures and is finally ‘thrown up’ on dry land. The children of Israel are delivered into freedom. Jesus brings comfort to the fearful in the boat.

As our brothers and sisters continue to rebuild their lives and clear the muck from what they can salvage, I pray a voice from someplace deep within will remind them of the Spirit’s Presence when they need it most. May our prayers reach across the ripples and the waves and give them the courage. May we become tributaries of prayer.

"I take a sip of simple water and with that the story of life. Its molecules have been in the rain forest, have lived in quantum compounds, have waved in sea anemones, have been the waters of baptism, have lived in our mothers, and are now on their way to ever new formations."  (from Worshipping Ecumenically)

Cherish: To hold dear; to feel or show love for; to take good care of; to protect; to cling to the idea or feeling of….cherish. Webster’ New World Dictionary

At some point of the last few days, the word cherish came to my mind. It is not a word we use with regularity. It seems almost archaic but it is a good word. I have been taking stock of things I cherish. And so I ask: What do you cherish?

Most often we think of people we cherish…..spouses, partners, children, friends, parents and grandparents. We simultaneously love these people while caring for them, protecting them. People will say they cherish time with someone…they hold the time spent with the other as more than ordinary, it is sacred in some way. We also cherish memories of important life events, special birthdays, anniversaries, weddings, or other experiences that are ‘above’ other experiences in some way.

We also cherish things. As I look around my home, I see many things I cherish. Pictures of my children, gifts from my husband, my piano, my father’s watch he received at his retirement, several books, souvenirs from trips. The list is, of course, endless. It is endless because these ‘things’ we cherish often only have real value because they are associated with a meaningful relationship or an important life experience. The longer one lives, the more there is to cherish. 

I have a drawer in which I have tucked away many of the Valentine’s, anniversary & birthday cards given to me by those I love. I clean out that drawer perhaps twice a year. As I toss many things, send others to be resold, the place in the right hand corner of the drawer is always refilled with those cards. They date back several years and each time I clean the drawer I reread the notes. Some messages have lost their meaning over time but others I can read and be right back at that moment, that day, that year. My children’s newly formed letters, stick figures of their bodies and mine, large smiles marking our faces. A sweet poem written just for me or a note meant to cheer me up after an illness keeps me clinging to these faded pieces of paper…..cherished.

What things do you cherish? Or more importantly, what do you cherish that continues to remind you of those relationships, those important days and moments that give your life meaning and purpose?

……"Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life." (from Love after Love by Derek Wolcott)