Over the past four days I have been taking a break. I have had difficulty finding the Internet. My cell phone only worked in certain places. February in Minnesota seems made for taking breaks. I remember when our children were little how the teachers always concocted a week in mid-February when they would have theme days. Monday would be ‘wear your pajamas day’, Tuesday was ‘beach day’, Wednesday was ‘fiesta day’…..you get the picture. This mid-winter break is needed in a landscape that tends to be varying shades of white and gray for far too many days. Everyone needs a break from the sameness.

My break took me to visit my mother for her birthday. It was a surprise and she had the good fortune to have her birthday fall on the same day as the Lunar Eclipse. After celebrating during an unusual snowy, cold southern Ohio day, we headed out to dinner with my siblings and their families. After dinner s we came out of the restaurant, the sky had cleared and the full moon shone bright and bold in the sky. I pulled my young nephew close and told him to watch the sky….the moon would soon disappear in our shadow. His bright eyes mirrored the moon with their awe.

Driving home through the countryside of barns and snowy empty fields waiting the gifts of spring, we periodically looked heavenward to see the progress of the eclipse. Clouds leftover from the snowstorm moved across the view of the silver white sphere. By the time we reached home the shadow had begun to fall across the moon. Here we stood, whirling without full awareness of our movement, watching our earth home’s cosmic effect.Every twenty minutes or so we would throw our coats on again and go out to check the progress…dark haze, black, gray….and then orange. As the eclipse came into its fullness….orange. We stood there knowing that this was a special day, a special moment, observing our turning on the earth and the turning of another year in my mother’s life. It was a gift to be together.

Later when I called home to Minnesota, my family told me they had been out looking at the moon also. I remember as a child thinking about the fact that the moon I saw was the same moon seen by children in Russia, India, Australia, Viet Nam. I had never been to those places but it was something I had in common with these children….we shared the same moon. Their languages were different, their religions were perhaps different, too, but we shared this amazing night light that watched over us as we slept. It gave me a calm comfort somehow to know that I shared this gift with those far away, those I did not know.

On Thursday I was comforted by the fact that I shared this amazing light with my mother, on her birthday.

"Sister Moon, I greet you, companion of my darkness. You are icon of the fluid God. Waxing to your fullness, you do not explode; waning in your emptiness, you do not die. Through all your changes you give your radiance. You embrace your shadows and are born again. From the burning day I hide in you. In the darkening night I seek you face. Guard me in my restless dreams, bless me with your ebb and flow that I may weather every change, thou vigil light, thou Sister Moon." Jan L. Richardson

I have always held a certain amount of pride in being a flexible person. In any given situation there really is only a certain amount of control one can have so, I believe, being flexible is a creative and honorable response. Yesterday I had the opportunity to live out this value.

After church I headed to the airport for a quick President’s Weekend trip to visit our older son who is in college in Ohio and to celebrate my mother’s birthday who lives in a nearby town. I love airports. The hustle and bustle…the people headed to and from so many different places…..the calls for flights headed to places I’ve never been….the hellos and goodbyes that always draw me into their emotion…..I love it all. So I always go to the airport ready for a surprising time. Now I recognize that air travel in the last few years has become more tedious and less glamorous(if is ever was), but for me it still holds a thrill.

Yesterday it was clear that weather was causing problems across the system so I thought it was quite a miracle that I made it to the gate of my connecting flight in Chicago with time to spare. After that flight to Columbus became delayed, I settled in with a magazine and a cup of coffee to do the only thing I could…wait. The gift of waiting is that you get to observe. My heart opened to the mother whose toddler had had it with waiting and was exhausted yet continued to walk and walk until he had a meltdown. I remember a few times like that with our own boys. I was intrigued by the James Brown look-alike and his elegant traveling companion….who were they, musicians, celebrity-look-alikes?  I watched with wonder the grandfather traveling with his two grandsons who never took their coats and hats off through the two hour wait. Where the coats new? I marveled at his patient voice as he spoke with them and their obvious respect and love for him. There was the couple that was so much in love that I am not sure they knew there was a delay. And then there was the rabbi, eating bread from a plastic bag. My eyes bugged out when he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hot pink cellphone.

If my plane had been on time, I would never have had the opportunity to observe these lives that only brushed by mine yesterday. Delays can sometimes be quite good when we look for the gifts in them.And now, I am praying for the flexibility to be patient with the fact that my luggage was lost. I’m glad I was wearing something comfortable and that I had the gift of seeing those incredible sights yesterday.

I am unsure whether or not I will have Internet access over the next couple of days but will write when I can.

Today may just be the day to practice flexibility……..

"I am not asking you
to take this wilderness from me,
to remove this place of starkness
where I come to know
the wildness within me,
where I learn to call the names
of the ravenous beasts
that pace inside me,
to finger the brambles
that snake through my veins,
to taste the thirst
that tugs at my tongue.

But send me
tough angels,
sweet wine,
strong bread:
just enough."
        Jan L. Richardson, In Wisdom’s Path

I have not wanted to let go of this past Sunday’s scripture reading, the story of Jesus in the wilderness. As we speak about our spiritual journeys during this Lent, our own wilderness experiences figure highly in how we tell our larger story.  I am thankful for this yearly retelling of Jesus, walking his own temptation path, being lured toward promises we all have encountered.

We are a culture that hungers for much….riches, recognition, objects that shine and dazzle. We are offered  ways to feed that hunger that are not nourishing and we often pull right up to the table. Jesus’ temptation is similar and can be a beacon of light for us as we reach toward whatever it is that offers a quick fix to a deep longing. Often the food that is placed before us will not feed what our soul desires.We need ‘strong bread’ to fill that empty space.

In a culture that offers fear in daily doses, we’d love to believe that safety is something that can be bought and sold. We try many ways to make it so but we know that living is full of risks and surprises that will constantly be in our path. We don’t want to dash our foot against a stone or have to watch as our children trip and fall. Yet we walk by faith and pray for the goodness of those who walk with us knowing that life will certainly bring dangers but also the out-stretched hand of a fellow traveler walking in the guise of God.

We are obsessed with power, what we might own, how we might rule over what we own, how we might eventually be King or Queen of the Hill. It is difficult not to buy into this pursuit in a society that makes gods out of  young  singers or athletes only to watch the rug being pulled out from under their fragile spirits as we shake our heads and refuse to see our part in their downfall.

Jesus was tempted to pay dearly for his deep hunger, offered false safety and unrealistic power and his answer was "Beat it!"  It is clear that his wilderness walk, like ours, prepares us for traveling with the spirit in ways only God can imagine….with tough angels, sweet bread, and strong bread. Just enough.

Have a blessed weekend……..

Today is Valentine’s Day, a day loved by many, feared by some, loathed by still others.The romantics and those in love adore this day. Depending on your life circumstances, there can be expectations that surround today, many of which seem impossible to meet. Of course capitalism has swept in and created a frenzy around what is the ‘perfect gift’ for a loved one,usually accompanied by a sizable price tag. Flowers, candy, cards….all a little more expensive than they are at other times of the year.

As a child I remember Valentine’s Day not so much for the valentines but for the opportunity to create the mailbox that would receive the cards from my classmates. My mother and I would scour the house for a shoe box and gather all the materials to decorate it. Red, white and pink construction paper, pieces of ribbon, old magazines, glue, scissors and the little paper doilies that were only used, it seemed to me, as the backdrop for fancy desserts or the yearly Valentine mailbox.To set the stage, we would cover the box first with paper, wrapping the bottom part of the box, gently, neatly folding the paper inside and taping it. This part of the box would be unseen after the top, also wrapped,but with a slot cut by my mother so valentines could be slipped inside was placed on top. Then the true work began….a paper doily here, topped with a red heart cut from the construction paper…..a rose or other flower cut from the magazine glued to the red heart. On and on it went as we stood back from the kitchen table, looking at our creative process unfolding before our eyes, agreeing that this was ‘just right’ and that was ‘too much’. The final touch was added and the top was placed on the box ready to receive the valentines from friends at school the next day.

On February 14th I would head out the door with my Valentine mailbox. I would place it on the corner of my desk and the teacher would call the name of each student and they would deliver their valentines. Some I was eager to receive….would there be a message that I thought was ‘special’ from a particular boy? Or would they simply say Happy Valentine’s Day….pretty safe, no need to worry about hidden meanings.

I don’t remember opening the valentine box until I got home. Maybe we did but my memory centers around sitting down with my mother to open the box we had made together. We would take out each valentine and read them. Some were funny, some simple, every now and then a homemade one. There was also always one from our teacher usually accompanied by a piece of candy. There we would be, sitting together, opening these sentiments for a day meant to remind us to tell those we love how we feel.

In that moment the most important reminder of love for me was not created by Hallmark but was held together by glue and tape,crumpled paper and artificial lace. Snuggled up together I knew through the warmth of feeling and a deep knowing that my mother and I had created a container for love.

"Let love be genuine." Romans 12:9

"You are here to kneel
Where prayer has been valid. And prayer is more
Than an order of words, the conscious occupation
Of the praying mind, or the sound of the voice praying."
                                T. S. Eliot

I did not grow up in a faith tradition that regularly would kneel to pray. I have vague memories of kneeling at my bedside as a child…now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Frankly that prayer frightened me a bit. My soul seemed something too precious, too much a part of me to give away. But my skinny little knees bored into the floorboards of my bedroom as I repeated this prayer I had been taught, looking I imagine, like a Norman Rockwell painting with my pigtails and flowered pajamas.

Because I didn’t grow up as a ‘kneeler’, I am always fascinated by traditions where this practice is natural, expected, sometimes even cavalier. I have attended many a mass where I, firmly planted in my pew, watched as those kneeling scratched their heads, looked up at the ceiling, turned to look at who was coming down the aisle.The somewhat flippant kneeling seemed wrong to me.I am reminded of those pilgrims who visit holy places or walk labyrinths in sacred sites, who fall to their knees and walk the last few steps to their destination in this position. Their arrival on bended knee is a mark of their humility, their penance, their praise.

Much of life, I believe, calls for kneeling. The poet Mary Oliver, writes: I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass. As I survey this last week, there are many moments where kneeling was called for…..the amazing brilliant red-orange of the hibiscus blooming in our house thumbing its petals at the frigid temperatures…..the sunrise I am watching right this minute coming up over the lake….the baby whose face I touched on Sunday, peach-fuzz and bright, welcoming eyes….the sound of my son’s music making, a gift he does not fully realize is his……the stories of those who have traveled far and near to walk daily with God. So many opportunities to kneel, it is a wonder that I can stay upright.

Today, this very day, where might you kneel to offer honor, praise, gratitude, awe?

As I drove to Buffalo, MN, yesterday, I was aware of the ice houses that festooned the lakes along Hwy. 55. I did not grow up in Minnesota so these small, often colorful houses in their clusters of community still amaze me. Cars and trucks move to and from them on the highway of water that rests beneath. I found what I always find…I want to be out there. Make no mistake, I do not want to ice fish. What I want is the solace of the small, simple space of the ice house.

Do you remember as a child taking blankets and creating a cave under the dining room table? Blankets, sheets, anchored with heavy objects on the top of the table created a woven house where books and toys could be held safe by the glow of a flashlight….always a flashlight.

I remember how our boys and the other neighborhood children would climb the ladder into the tree house in our yard. They would keep watch over the houses, spy on other children, guard the yards and street. The newest ‘favorite’ toy was with them and they often sent down for snacks to be eaten in that small, simple space.

From the dining room of the retreat center, my colleagues and I watched the ice houses. We discussed the appeal and the ‘sanity’ of spending time out on the ice in these small structures. I expressed my desire to be there. One person said:"Perhaps ice fishing is really an ancient monastic practice." Probably not. But the longing, the need to pull away from the stuff of our everyday life has always been there. It calls to us still.

I am reminded that my Celtic ancestors built stone hives along the shores of Wales and retreated there for long periods of time. They spent time in prayer and solitude in these simple spaces. Ice…stone…not what we would think of as comforts. But the space they can create provides room for us to be still and know, to listen for the voice of the Holy One on the wind and in our hearts.

Do you need to get away from the stress and distractions of this day? There are ice houses all over the lakes in Minnesota. Or it may just be the time to push your chair back and crawl under your desk. If anyone asks, you can just say it is an ancient monastic practice.

"You are my shelter…from distress you will preserve me…"Psalm 32

"I will tell you my dreams….will you promise to guard them well?…Everything is much more than it seems….There is power in these stories we tell….There is love in these secrets we tell." Claudia Schmidt, ‘Remember’

I have a friend who takes a vacation/retreat once a year with several friends. During this week the primary agenda is to be together and to tell their stories, to tell the others who they really are. I don’t mean just a half hour of a few choice tidbits of the triumphs of their success, the agony of their defeats. No. They spend the entire week focused on one or two people telling their whole story. All of it, the parts they are proud of, and those they’d rather not remember. The others are there to receive,to listen, to be present to the life of the other.

What an amazing concept! What must it be like to prepare to tell the story of who you are while others listen with true attention and care? What must it be like to hold the space where that story is being told, to allow yourself to be pulled into the true-life story of another?

It was my privilege to experience this kind of story telling at worship yesterday.During Lent,we have invited people in our worshiping community to share their spiritual journey, their story of faith. While yesterday’s life-story telling was condensed to a much shorter period of time than my friend’s retreat week, I was captured by the sacred nature of what it means to listen, to hold, to be present to the telling of a life. We sat in a circle as this person shared who they are, who they really are, how they have known God,and we held out our arms to receive. And in the telling and the listening, through the Spirit’s movement, we all became a part of this person’s story, because we have heard and received. The story telling becomes a sacrament of sorts…..an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace. It is a powerful act.It is a blessing.

Who knows you? I mean, who really knows you? May this day find you being known…. by another, and by the Holy. Perhaps someone is just waiting to hear the good news through your life.

O Lord, you have searched me and known me. You know when I sit down
and when I rise up; you discern my thoughts from far away. You search out my
path and my lying down, and are acquainted with all my ways. Even before a word
is on my tongue, you know it completely. You hem me in, behind and before, and
lay your hand upon me. Psalm 139

"I know nothing, except what everyone knows-if there when Grace dances, I should dance." W.H.Auden

Do you like to dance? Do you think of yourself as a dancer? I am certain most people might answer ‘yes’ to the first question and an emphatic ‘no’ to the second. In our culture,at some point around when we are ten years old, all the dancers decide on another vocation. This always becomes clear to me when I go to a wedding reception. The moment the band begins to play and the bride and groom take to the dance floor, they are joined by young children spinning, gyrating, twisting, floating, their small bodies immersed in the power of the music.It is as if they can’t stop themselves. Gotta dance!

I have often thought of the metaphor of dance. I have done enough dancing in my life to know that I can’t lead all the time….though I sure would like to think I can. To do so means certain disaster on the floor….toes get stepped on, arms get pulled, music loses its meaning,the beauty of human movement is destroyed.Following is imperative to good dancing. Dancing requires give and take,listening and responding, eye contact, trust, leading and following, leaning and being held. Just like life.

Auden’s statement about Grace was not meant to call our minds to Grace Kelly, although, wouldn’t we all like to believe we could float across the floor as she did, suspended in Fred Astaire’s arms, dress flowing, hair perfect, legs long,sleek and precision perfect? This Grace is multifaceted and has many definitions.

Grace…a sense of what is right and proper…may my dance be filled with humility. Grace….thoughtfulness toward others,goodwill….may I remember to hold and be held gently. Grace….a time granted beyond the date set for performance,payment,obligation…may I move with intention as I’d like to have others move. Grace…..a short prayer when blessings are asked, thanks is given….may the music of my voice provide the song of gratitude. Grace…..the unmerited love and favor of God toward humankind….may I never forget who I am and with whom I have danced since my birth.

It’s February. In Minnesota February can be a dreary, long month with Valentine’s Day providing the only diversion. Whether you dance on February 14th or on another day, my prayer is that Grace will be your faithful partner.

Stay warm this weekend…………………..

Have you seen hope lately? I have. On Tuesday evening when I headed out to my caucus meeting, I didn’t necessarily expect much. Certainly we had heard more about this process that we ever had but that still didn’t prepare me for the experience. As I headed south on Hwy. 52 toward Simley High School, suddenly the traffic came to a halt two exits before. Inch by inch, lights streaming, we made our way to the exit, into the parking lots, onto side streets, into any lot available for cars. People quickly exited their vehicles and crossed a very busy street, sometimes dodging cars and creating what could have been a very dangerous situation. But, I am happy to say,civility prevailed. The excitement along the street was palpable. It only intensified as the doors opened.

Once inside the school people crowded around maps of their neighborhoods, looked for signs with room numbers for our precincts. Neighbors waved at one another as they were jostled down the hallways. Inside the classrooms…which never seem to visibly change…we sat in desks. I looked around the room. People of all ages sat or lined the walls, standing. Parents with infants and toddlers in strollers squeezed in beside those for whom parenting was a very distant memory. I was flanked by two young women I knew to be twenty years old. In front of me a young teacher from my children’s middle school turned to greet me. Across the room people stood to share their names, their resolutions, their passions. We placed our small squares of paper with our choice for a presidential candidate in an ordinary green envelope.

There have been many reports complaining of chaos, of those who gave up, of the long lines, of disgruntled people and maybe the system does need to be fixed. That was not my experience. At one point I looked around and thought to myself: "This is what church used to look like." People of all ages, all walks of life, all together in one place, longing to be heard, telling their life story by virtue of what mattered enough to them to show up on a cold Minnesota night.

Someone finally called the question. Hope answered.

"That each step
may be a shedding.
That you will let yourself
become lost.
That when it looks
like you’re going backwards,
you may be making progress.
That progress is not the goal anyway,
but presence
to the feel of the path on your skin,
to the way it reshapes you
in each place it makes contact,
to the way you cannot see it
until the moment you have stepped out."
              Jan L. Richardson, In Wisdom’s Path

Today we begin the forty days of Lent. It is Ash Wednesday. Today we will be marked with ashes and reminded that we are people of the Earth, people who walk with our feet firmly planted on holy ground, arms reaching out and toward heaven.

I did not grow up being marked with ashes on this day. For good or ill, Lent was not as central to my formative years as I know it was to some. My small United Methodist church did what other churches did in our area and made a big deal out of Holy Week. But the observance of Lent only became something I acquired when I went to college and was around many more Roman Catholics. I remember the first time I witnessed this smudge of ‘dirt’ on forehead after forehead as they walked across campus. I was fascinated. It was such a visible religious symbol being worn by ‘regular’ people. I wanted it.

After moving to Minnesota I became more aware of the practices of Lent.The strong Lutheran and Catholic presence and, I believe,some changes in most main line churches, brought a more intentional observance of these days that lead up to Easter. Taking the journey of Lent seriously can be a wonderful spiritual practice, a wonderful way to deepen the experience of the Holy. Many people will ‘give up something’. Others will ‘take on something’. Both provide an opportunity to engage in being present to oneself and to the Spirit for a specific amount of time. All good.

This year’s gospel readings provide the images of journey as well, telling of Jesus’ own path from wilderness to Jerusalem and all the places in between. They are rich texts of his experiences with being planted firmly on the Earth….with all that means…..while reaching toward heaven. Each step filled with uncertainty, surprise,adventure, healing,hope. They provide much for us to mine for our own journeys.

How will you walk through this Lent? How will you be aware of the path that unfolds before you? How will you be present to the Spirit? As we are marked today with ashes, either literally or figuratively, may each of us remember that we are people of Earth, reaching toward Heaven.