We are a world of multi-taskers. It is a badge of honor in most circles to be able to do many things at one time…cook dinner while finishing up a work project….make phones calls while wiping the kitchen counters…running while listening to a podcast…texting with a child while walking the dog. The list goes on. Of course, much can get done while juggling these many colored balls. Most of us can come to end of the day feeling quite pleased with ourselves.

And then there are the times when you realize you have driven several blocks and don’t remember having done so. How did you get to this place, past that house you particularly enjoy, on down the road from that amazing red oak tree, the one that turns such a lovely color in autumn? Looking back on the day, it is easy to have swaths of time that seem impossible to recall. Like a person with some kind of amnesia you can realize that you simply don’t know where those moments went, how they were spent and with whom.

Recently I received an email from an online community I connect with on a semi-regular basis. The writer who hosts this group told of a monastic practice called statio. This word was new to me and I perked up at its presence. Statio is the commitment to stop one thing before beginning another. In that suspended time between acts, the practice is to pause(I liked this!) and to breath five long breaths. Once this has been done the next activity can begin. The writer said that this practice in a monastic setting even extended to moving from one place to the next, one room to another, taking time to pause at the threshold, giving honor to each moment as unique and pure gift. Since reading this I have thought much about what impact this practice might have on my life.

Given that Advent is itself a threshold time, I wondered about the ways we move so quickly from one activity, one event, to another during these times. Doing so is so counter to what the rhythm of the season is about and even what is happening within Creation. Looking out my office window right now darkness has already arrived at 4:50 p.m. I can see the snow hugging the limbs of the oak tree I consider my work companion and the lights are twinkling from the balcony highrise next door. The scene calls for a slowing down, a paying attention to a threshold of day and night, of light and dark, of work and rest. Rather than barreling through I have decided to take those five long breaths and honor this moment, one that has never been before and will never be again.

Like the threshold, like the breath, like this time of day, there is possibility in the in-between time. Taking those five long breaths as I did I felt myself sink into the moment and that place of possibility opened in ways I would have missed otherwise. I was reminded of a poem I have always loved by David White :

Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
This opening to the life
we have refused again and again
until now.
Until now.

Perhaps Advent is an ‘until now’ season. Its invitation is to pare away the distractions and the mistaken belief that we can do it all. Its invitation is to do one thing at a time and to breathe deeply in between. This practice just might bring us through the darkness and into the light of Christmas fuller and more ready to welcome the Light of the world.

Advent again,
and the very stones are silent.
In the east, no star;
only shadows
and the threat of darkness.
We have run out of light,
and we wait in fear.
Still,
from the cosmic distance,
tentacles of brilliance probe,
seek us out, look for a dwelling place
among us.
~Caryl Porter

One of the truly wonderful and beautiful things about my work is that people often send me poetry, words they know I might enjoy or find helpful. A few times, and what a joy it was, someone has actually called me and read me a poem over the phone. It is at those moments, among others,that I pinch myself to think this is my work!

The poem above came to me last week from a dear friend and colleague. I read It over and over and felt the weight of it on my chest. Yes, Advent again. I have often said that the true gift of the seasons of the church year is the fact that, if we are blessed or lucky, we will have the opportunity to go at them once again. And the truth is I am different than I was last Advent. As are you. As is the world. The life experiences we have lived have made it so. Our hopes, our disappointments, what we’ve learned, how we have chipped away at our unknowing, has brought us to this place in the second week of December with, perhaps, recognizable faces but changed spirits. It will always be so.

Yesterday I sat with two friends and we talked about the fear that comes of darkness. Literal darkness and the darkness that threatens to overcome in what we are uncertain of, future and past. We talked of our own times of darkness when we faced illness, our own or of a loved one, what it means to grow older, our view of the world’s environmental changes that seem dark and foreboding. In those times, it is true that it seems ‘we have run out of light’ and ‘we wait in fear’.

But just as quickly as we painted these pictures of dark and stormy nights, we began also to speak of the people who held the lamplight for us. Those who, often through very small acts or a well turned phrase, allowed us to not let the fear debilitate us. It was as if there was some miracle of light that illuminated the darkness, making it holy.

Today I am thinking of all those for whom this may not be the case. People are living through life situations and doing so in very lonely ways. Those with a chronic illness or chronic job loss. Those who suffer from the darkness of depression or the effects of loss of sunlight. Children seem lost. Parents are aging and need more help than any child can offer. The cold has surrounded and there is no bed, or home, or friend to walk beside.

And yet, here we are, me writing and you reading. From what I know of the faith story, of all sacred scriptures, we are imprinted with the tendency toward goodness, kindness, and love, by the One whose very Breath caused us to be. That breath of never-ending Life,probes the darkness and asks to breath through us. We are the lamplighters. We are the tentacles, dim as we may be, whose acts of hope have the power to change the world. Or at least one life. On one day. In the cold, dark days of December.

So be it.

***This post was originally written on December 11, 2012.

I see the Moon
And the Moon sees me.
God bless the Moon
And God bless me.

On Sunday, we began the season of Advent with its usual greeting: Keep awake! I so love this yearly demand to pay attention. The command rises out of the scriptures and seems to hang like a cartoon ballon over the gathered community. You can notice people smiling, some looking perplexed, that such a directive is so clear, so concise. In the many ways we can wrestle with the meanings and interpretation of these ancient texts, this one cuts right to the chase. Keep awake. Be alert. Pay attention.

It seems such a simple thing on paper. Black Ink rising from the white page telling you just what to do. But we all know the difficulty of keeping awake in the ways the words are intending. This is not ‘don’t fall asleep’ as in literal nocturnal behavior. This is keep awake to the ways God is on the move. This is keep awake to how the Spirit is weaving in and out of the ordinary and the extraordinary. This is a keep awake to the in-breaking of the Sacred in the macro and the micro of our living.

We certainly got a big dose of the macro over the weekend. The Super Moon was in its full glory, shining forth from a midnight blue sky on Saturday, looking close enough to reach out and touch. This magical, mysterious glowing globe hung suspended over our heads and sent its rays into our windows causing a middle of the night wake up call. It was so amazing I got out of bed and just went to stand in the flood of white light it poured onto the carpet. It seemed the right thing to do.

Standing in its full force of brilliance, I was reminded of a story my mom likes to tell. Apparently when I was very small I cried for my father to get the Moon for me. I wonder if this happened on another of Creation’s showy Super Moon experiences. I love to think of my little girl self who loved this beautiful orb so much that she wanted her dad, who could do anything, right?, to pull it from the sky and place it in her tiny outstretched hands. Keeping awake, even in the middle of the night, has its gifts in the memories it serves up.

It is easy to keep awake to the magnificence of Super Moon moments. What isn’t so easy is keeping awake to what gifts might also be hidden in the more mundane…doing dishes, making a way through a to-do list, sitting in a meeting where it appears nothing is getting done, another conversation with a person that you find particularly annoying. These are times when it is easy to allow spirit numbing distractions to take up residence. And yet these are the majority of how we spend our days. Super Moon experiences are few and far between…which is what makes them super.

Keeping awake to the ways in which the Holy shows up in the every day is our on-going work. Noticing the way the sun slants through the window. Paying attention to the precious sound in a loved one’s voice. Savoring the taste of that first sip of coffee or the tart tang of an orange slice. Feeling the wind on your cheek and seeing, really seeing, the rise of the bird who just ate breakfast at your backyard feeder as it takes flight. All these moments of keeping awake connect us in invisible ways with Creation and Creator. And yet none could be thought of as particularly extraordinary.

How are you staying awake to the ordinary, holy moments? May these Advent days find us all keeping watch, paying attention, open to what gifts might be right in front of us. It just might lead to something super.

** Ten years ago I began a daily blog during Advent. My intention was to offer the faith community where a I am blessed to be in ministry, the opportunity to ‘pause’ in the busyness of December. Writing became a practice for me and continues to this day. During this Advent I have chosen to offer another chance to take a quick time of reflection in what can be a hectic time. Some of these chances come from blogs written over the years during the same weeks. The following is from that first year of writing on December 12, 2007. I would love to say I have not other times like the one described here. That would be untruthful. But I continue to practice!

I have been blessed to be a part of a faith tradition, Christianity, my entire life. I have often done battle with its stances, its practices, its doctrines, but still I have been blessed by the core messages of this tradition. The messages of unconditional love, the model which Jesus provides for confronting injustice in the world, its work for peace, have been the solid ground on which I have built my work and my life.

And yet there are other traditions that have wisdom for me, the practice of Buddhism for one. I believe I have mentioned before The Barn at the End of the World:The Apprenticeship of a Quaker,Buddhist Shepherd by Mary Rose O’Reilley. It is a book I have been taking small bites out of for the last couple of months. Yesterday, after a particularly trying day, I picked it up to relax. Instead I was confronted by wisdom and a good, swift kick in the seat of the pants.

“Anger is a dangerous wave. Somebody does something terrible and a great wave rises. You need to practice on little irritations, so that you can resist the great waves when they come. Practice and look deeply.” While my day had not been trying because of anger necessarily, I was in a stewing mode and I gave my all to it. Stew, stew, stew….until I had nearly reached a boiling point. I had missed the opportunity to ‘practice’ on the little irritations that come with the very act of living, and had chosen to ride the dangerous wave.

“In practice we learn what to let in and keep out. A conversation with a friend may be full of joy or it may make us not want to continue living.We (must) give the consciousness good food.” I had spent the day mostly adding really bad ingredients to my stew. Not something I am proud to admit.

“But suppose you are tired. Meditation makes us less tired. The breath becomes deep and slow. If we’re tired, we must look after the body. When you’re exhausted, just nourish yourself. In this condition you cannot look deeply. Nourish with breath. Smile with your tiredness. In-feel better. Out-remove poison. In-deep, out-slow.”

Breathing……I am for it. In yesterday’s stew there was no room for breath. No room for nourishment. And so instead of connecting with that ruach….the breath of God within….I just kept adding more fuel for exhaustion.

I feel blessed to have the wisdom of this tradition to inform my living.I am thankful that yesterday I chose to sit down and pick up this book. I am also thankful for the swift kick…and the reminder….to practice, practice, practice, the art of living with compassion for others…..and myself.

It has always been about light. As humans we have always searched for ways to create light, to stand in light, to hold the light before us. We are held in the delicate balance of darkness and light in our daily living and have, over time, tried in gentle and desperate ways to be in control of this light. To a certain degree we have had success by lighting up the night sky in ways that shield us from ever needing to embrace the gifts of darkness. Like most successes, it is a double edged sword.

Tomorrow we begin the Season of Advent in the Christian household. This is the marking of the four weeks that lead to the celebration of Christmas. Advent comes from the Latin word ‘adventus’ meaning ‘coming’. Those of us in the the northern climes have been experiencing the darkness of the days that also lead us toward the Winter Solstice, the date at which more light begins to accompany our living. It is out of this experience that the Christian tradition of the Advent wreath was born.

Several years ago I came across the account of how the pre-Christian people who also experienced this darkness would, instead of fighting against it, embrace what was happening in their world. They would remove a wheel from their wagon and bring it inside. This would call a halt to their work outside and cause them to alter their regular movement in the world. Laying the wheel on a table, they would decorate it with candles and other gifts of the fields. Slowly over the weeks they would light candles in an effort to call the light back so they could once again be about their life and work in the world. At some point in time, this practice took on the symbols of waiting and watching for the Light of the Christ Child which we celebrate at Christmas.

I have always loved this account of how we came to integrate into our Christian tradition this wisdom of our ancestors. It has always been about the Light. While the ancients had the wisdom to stop what they were doing and live in harmony with the rhythms of Creation, we now tend to fight against the waning light and the encroaching darkness. But what would happen if we also embraced the darkness and even metaphorically took the wheel off whatever drives our life and work. What if, instead of ramping up our activity and flooding our homes with light, we would instead stop, light a single candle, and reflect on what the darkness has to teach us?

That is a gift of the season of Advent. The days are meant to be shrouded in waiting. Watching. Expectation. Preparation. These are all acts that can happen in quieter ways than most of us experience in December. These can become practices that can ground us and center us to be able to make room for the ways in which Christ is being born in our own lives, the lives of those we love and in the life of the world.

The faith community of which I am blessed to be a part has chosen the theme ‘Let It Be’ to travel with us during these Advent days. It is a theme that fits well with the idea of taking the wheel off whatever propels us forward at sometimes frantic spaces. Let it be…the darkness is the gift of Creation’s dance with the Sun and the Moon. Let it be…the rhythm of winter is moving in and calling us to its gifts. Let it be…the sacred stories that remind us of the Presence of the Holy’s constant companionship are meant to be savored and held dear. Let it be…the light which we so often long for comes to us in small and ever-increasing flickers.

What is driving you these December days? How might you remove that wheel in order to be more present to the gifts of darkness, the gift of slowing down and resting in the glow of a single light? How might such an act become a practice for arriving at Christmas with a deeper understanding of your own spirit, your own walk with God?

Ten years ago, I began this blog during the season of Advent offering the invitation to do just that. Pause. Rest. Reflect. Wait for what God is birthing in your life. The invitation is extended once again as we begin this precious, holy season. May you be surrounded by darkness that teaches and enough light to show the way. Blessed be.

Let’s be clear. I never meant to break the law. I was simply doing what I always do when I travel. I pick stuff up…stones mostly..with the occasional shell. Walking on beaches and over landscapes that usually connect to my spirit in some way, I see an interesting rock and I can’t resist. Before I know it, my pockets are weighed down with geological specimens that act as very inexpensive souvenirs. That occasional shell? That’s where things got interesting.

Three months ago I returned from a wonderful pilgrimage to Scotland. This was followed by another sojourn into northern Wales. Along the way I picked up stones and a shell or two. I kept these treasures in two separate plastic sandwich bags and tucked them into my luggage for the trip home. A day or two after being back in Minnesota, with sleep still escaping me at the proper times for this side of the Atlantic, I decided to put the stones in a small bowl of water so their colors would remind me of the water and beach in Scotland where they were collected. Among the stones was one shell that had caught my eye, a snail shell with lovely deep, blue whorls. I placed the bowl on our living room coffee table and went about my days.

On a Friday afternoon I bought some autumn flowers and filled a vase with the intention of placing them on the coffee table. Moving the bowl, I felt my hand become kind of wet…and a little slimy. Placing the bowl of stones on the dining room buffet, I went back to place the vase of flowers on the table. And then I saw it, the shell was moving. I had transported a snail…a Scottish snail…and it was alive! I quickly got it back to ‘its’ bowl and its fellow travelers and proceeded to observe its behavior. How its eyes were at the ends of very long tentacles. How it slithered around the edge of the bowl. How its body was a lovely spring green accompanied by the swirling shell. Friends, over for Friday evening dinner, also spent time watching it. I laid some butter lettuce in the bowl and it nibbled away…I could actually hear its chewing.

It all seemed some strange miracle to have transported this live being in my luggage. It survived against incredible odds and now I felt responsible for it. Over the next days I found myself checking on it. Was it eating? Was it still living? And what could all this mean, that this small creature had become an extension of the pilgrimage that had fed my soul and reminded me of the ways in which pilgrims had traveled ancient paths in order to have a closer walk with God?

Since the snail has come to live in our house, I was reminded of a book I read some time ago called The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating by Elisabeth Tova Bailey. A woman in precarious health is given a plant in which she is surprised to find a snail living. She allows the snail to be her teacher as she observes its slow, intentional movements, how it labors, how it rests, how it takes its time and moves with courage over and around its surroundings. I pulled out that book and saw these words: “Think not of the amount to be accomplished, the difficulties to be overcome, or the end to be attained, but set earnestly at the little task at your elbow, letting that be sufficient for the day.”(Sir William Osler, physician, 1849-1919) Wise advice.

Advent begins this Sunday. This season which has become my favorite of the Christian year calls us to slow down, to pay attention, to be awake to the slow work of a God…sufficient for the day… that is always present though we are often moving too quickly to notice. In these dark December days, the call of the Holy is to go inward for a while, to practice reflecting on our own slow work that makes God’s presence known in this precious world. It is a countercultural way of living given our consumer, media saturated world. But countercultural has always been the Way of Jesus.

This Advent season I have a new mentor in the art of slowing down, of understanding what is sufficient for the day. I did not mean to choose this teacher and I did not mean to carry it far from its home. But here we are. Together. I have named it Columba.

Many years ago I discovered the poetry of R.S. Thomas. I can’t remember how it happened. Perhaps I was drawn to the name I knew to be Welsh and so I began to read. The poem that I read and have continued to read every now and then is simply called ‘The Other’. It paints with Word a picture of someone, sleepless, lying awake listening for the sounds one hears in the night, sounds that often are magnified in the wee hours, sounds that can be frightening or calming depending on what it is that is keeping us awake. This sleepless one allows the sound of the waves to lull him into imagining another who is always awake, who is companion in both sleep and wakefulness, receiving our prayers over and over into eternity.

The first time I read this poem I probably wept. The words were so rich and the depth of feeling so raw with the hope of having prayers heard…by someone, anyone. And today this poem came into even sharper focus for me. Stumbling as I did into a small church on the northwest coast of Wales, I found a whole wall dedicated to this poet who was vicar of this church from 1967-1978, this church which hangs on an outcrop of land with the sea’s waves crashing just outside the door. I did not know that Thomas had been a minister here. Being in this place was pure chance and I was taken by surprise to find this connection.

Walking around the church I saw evidence that this tiny parish is vital and still engaged in the big, deep questions that Thomas loved. Every nook and cranny is filled with simplicity and beauty that reflects the land, air, sky and sea that no doubt has shaped the identity of this small village, that has created the theology that holds them. The words chosen to welcome and those that fill a booklet meant to lead the guest around the space are poetic and well chosen. They are clearly a people who have been led by someone whose love of language must have been ever present, someone who had won several awards for literature and, I learned today, was even nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1996. When I say this is a small church, I mean it could not seat more than maybe 150-200 people. Given the state of most churches in villages this size to see one that appears so vital warms my heart and to have found it seems like some amazing gift.

Most of my life I have been a good sleeper. But over the last months there have been times that I, like Thomas, have been awake listening to every strange and tiny sound that creaks through the house. Usually in these night time thrashings, I go over all the things I have done, usually the ones for which I am filled with regret or those that I wish I could undo. Or I lay there making a skin deep list of all I have left undone, the procrastinations or details that eluded me in the waking hours. This stew pot can get hot pretty fast and before I know it, it is boiling. Does this sound familiar to you?

Tonight, as I lay my head down in the deep darkness of a place with no streetlights or ambient light, I can hear the waves crashing over and over just outside the hotel window. Just next door the church is standing as it has stood for centuries receiving the sound of the waves. Inside the door is a simple piece of wood with the words for ‘The Other’ printed in crude letters. My prayer is that if tonight brings sleep or restlessness that I have the grace to imagine the One who is awake as well holding my prayers…and your prayers…the prayers of those with deep faith…and the prayers of those whose doubt is real. May The Other receive the prayers of the world this night..for a few hours…and for eternity.

It’s a sad story. About a King and a faithful dog and a baby boy. And a wolf. We are staying in the village of Beddgelert in northern Wales. This tiny town has its identity built around this story this sad story that goes something like this:

Llewelyn the Great had a favorite dog, Gelert. He also had an infant son. One day the Prince went hunting leaving his faithful dog to watch over the child. Coming home he found his home in chaos and blood smeared everywhere, including on the dog, and his child was missing. Thinking the dog had killed his son, Llewelyn, in a rage slit the throat of his companion Gelert contributing to the chaos and bloody scene. But moments later the Prince finds the child safe, unharmed, beside a huge, dead wolf. Gelert had killed the wolf and protected the child. Llewelyn is said to have never smiled again.

It is a story that grips the heart. And it is a story that is not true…factually anyway. It was created in the 18th century by a crafty resident to draw people to this picturesque village nestled between two tall hills and a swiftly flowing river. The story has been believable enough that people still come to visit the grave of Gelert placing coins around the stone that marks the site of this dog who was wrongly judged and died for a crime he did not commit. It is a fascinating phenomenon. Since this is also my second time to visit the grave, it has caused me to reflect on it all.

The story of Gelert contains much of what all good stories hold…mystery, intrigue, tragedy and an element of a happy resolution. Clearly, this story pulls at the heartstrings of dog lovers everywhere, of which, the British certainly are. Dogs and their companions are everywhere! The story also holds the ancient nature of a legend that has endured time. And it also carries some lessons and a bit of wisdom that challenge humanity at our core.

Reading the story once again I was reminded of the times I have jumped to quick judgment with results that were troubling, while certainly not as tragic as Llewelyn’s. I think most people might say the same. I am reminded of the times I act without weighing the possible outcome, without thinking what my actions might set in motion. I think of the times I have seen, and perhaps been involved in myself, a misuse of power over those who might be seen as ‘smaller’ or with less status. All this can be thought about individually and communally. How often do we as nations and communities act too quickly to judge without listening or getting the fullness of information? How often do we think the worst of someone or a whole group of people? Our newspapers are full of such acts and we live daily in the chaos and the blood-letting of it.

Perhaps the story of Gelert and Llewelyn has continued in this sleepy village because it holds an element of truth we each carry, something that invites us to a certain kind of reflective confession. Though not factual this story holds much truth. My hope is that the story continues to be told for generations to come, that people continue to visit the ‘grave’ of Gelert and place coins around the stone. In acts like this, may we each find ways to make amends for the ways we have harmed those who might be labeled the least, the lost and the left out, many of whom are companion and protectors. As we make our offerings, may we find healing…and lost smiles.

Traveling, being away from home, when terrible things happen is always disconcerting. Not being able to reach out to your steady friends and family, to have the grounding of what is familiar, shakes a person in ways that at other times can be processed in a more metered way. Being far from home, hearing the news of the horrific events in Las Vegas from a stranger whose voice and inflection sounded so unlike your own, gives a jolt that messes with all your vulnerable edges. It always seems to me that it is easier to be with tragedy when you are in a place whose fabric you know like the back of your hand. Maybe others experience this differently but this is true for me and it always surprises me the degree to which I am unnerved.

Hearing this news as I did, in such a lovely and peaceful place as the island of Iona, also caused me to begin to reflect on something quite different. I began to notice, not what is wrong in the world but what is right. I didn’t do this to deny or minimize the horrible, the violent, the incredibly sad events. I did it because I was also being confronted moment after moment by kindness, beauty, wisdom and deep acts of faith. I began to notice what holds a greater truth that can sometimes get hidden in the chaos and ugliness we have been experiencing lately.

Looking all around me, I saw the brilliant green of a landscape that knows at least a little rain nearly every day. It seems, because people expect this gift from the sky, most are prepared and do not complain or dread its arrival. They see it as the necessary companion of green fields, rolling valleys and rainbows. Having been blessed with an abundance of rainbows over the last days, another thing that is right in the world is that it seems nearly impossible to tire of seeing them. Rainbows are “awe” inspiring…and awe is always right and good. Most of us could do with more awe.

Nearly every day I have eaten food that came from within a few miles of where I sat down at a table. Gardens grown by those who likely also cooked vegetables recently clinging dirt and fish pulled from the sea by fishermen in small boats whose livelihood has likely been passed down for generations makes for a just and sustainable community. The food was not only fresh but inventive and artful on the plate that carried not only nutrition but pride. If I was inclined, as some are, to take photos of their food, I would have a camera full of meals.

What has been ‘right’ with people I have met? To a person, nearly all have been kind and helpful. Many have offered an empathetic word for what has been happening in our country from hurricanes to violent tragedy. Some have offered prayers on our behalf. None have dispensed judgment or been disrespectful. Conversations have been thoughtful and questions open. Last night our young waiter told us of his university work as a student of geography and disaster control and relief. He spoke of volcanoes, hurricanes and floods and their impact…I felt confident in a future for our world in the guidance of hands like his. All right and good.

Outside our windows, from rooms, trains and buses, sheep grazed offering their Zen master calm and presence in the moment. Cows linger near by sheep and they coexist with peace and harmony sharing the grass that helps make the rich milk and cheese we have enjoyed. Overhead birds swoop and dive, occasionally landing on the head of a sheep to eat insects off the sheep’s head. What an arrangement!

Last night we walked streets that were lined with buildings built in 1400 and 1500 and the wall that rings the city of Chester claims its origins in 70 A.D. These stones have seen much of the pain and anguish that humans can ladle upon one another. And yet they stand tall and continue to also be at the ready to welcome visitors and strangers. Inside one of them we could see a group of women of varying ages gathered around a table piecing together what appeared to be a quilt. Learners and teachers around a common lesson…throughout time this has been true.

The headlines are harsh and we need pay attention to them. We need offer our hearts to those who have lost loved ones and work to corral the love of guns that provide tools for such violence. And from blended knees in prayer and behind computer screens, at work and play, and in places of worship, we would do well also to remember all that is right in the world. In that remembering, may our gratitude be great and our resolve to continue to create more of what is right for the healing of the world.

“And suddenly the sun broke through the sky
And I was home, a broad Atlantic
Stumbled over the rocks and creamed in rage
A tug of storm hung low across the shores
Water color blue and broken green.

How did I lose my way or once believe
That there were riches bigger than this simplicity
Or that any other tide could speak, or heal
The wounds of searching deeper cut than pain
Where here I stood by heaven hearing God?”
~Kenneth C. Steven, Iona

And so…it did indeed ‘all work out’. Just as the woman at the Iona book shop had said. We were able to make our pilgrimage walk. ‘Suddenly the sun broke through the sky…’ Taking off across the island paths we were bathed in its light and the ever present swirling winds. Walking in footsteps that have been walked over and over again, in faith, in fear, in desperation, in great hope, we put one foot in front of the other and made our way. Along the way, we stopped and prayed and sang and with each step we formed a deeper connection. Hands reached out to help bodies that were tired or had stumbled in mud and over stone. Quiet conversation or deep silence walked as companion. Each of us had our own reason for walking. Each had our own expectations. And so we continued our walk, step by blessed step.

When we made it to our destination, St. Columba’s Bay, we stood looking out toward Ireland much as Columba and his companions had done more than 1500 years ago. We looked at the seas which roiled and turned blue, then aqua and finally, brilliant white as they crashed over the rocks. The stones beneath our feet were smooth from countless waves that had crashed before. As those who had made it here after over three hours of walking, we searched the stones for the smooth, green stones known as St. Columba’s tears. Tears shed for a land he had loved and lost. Tears also perhaps shed for those he had left behind. We now searched for these stones to carry with us. In days to come, these stones may be held as we pray for our world and for one another. These stones connect us with the ancient prayers of all the others spoken, offered on this beach.

To have made this pilgrimage walk was privilege and gift. And to have walked it with this group of fellow travelers is an experience I will carry with me forever.

In the evening we prayed this prayer from more ancient words gathered by Andrew Carmichael in Carmina Gaedelica:

The guarding if the God of life be on you….the guarding of the loving Christ be on you…the guarding of the Holy Spirit be on you…every night of your lives…to aid you and enfold each day and night of your lives. Aided and enfolded, we rested well.