LOVE AND PRAISE!!

Advent Four, in which the Love Candle is lit, has passed, and so has the official celebration of the Birth itself (which, of course, didn’t happen anywhere near this time of year, but it's meaningful, certainly--light in the darkness!) I was out of commission, sick with a particularly virulent flu, so I couldn't say much about it, but I can't begin to express my appreciation of it!

Love is born on earth!

This week's lectionary texts are overflowing with praise. 

Isaiah 61 starts off fairly quivering with excitement:

            I will greatly rejoice in the LORD,

my whole being shall exult in my God;

            for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation,

he has covered me with the robe of righteousness,

            as a bridegroom decks himself with a garland,

and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.

Then Psalm 147 chimes in:

Hallelujah!
How good it is to sing praises to our God! *
how pleasant it is to honor him with praise!

The LORD rebuilds Jerusalem; *
he gathers the exiles of Israel.

He heals the brokenhearted *
and binds up their wounds.

The Epistle (Gal. 3) proclaims:

When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, in order to redeem those who were under the law, so that we might receive adoption as children.

Finally, the Gospel (John 1) rounds out the joy with a passage that is featured in most people’s Favorites List:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

And these are just snippets. If you want to fill out your own praises (especially if you are also finding some darkness and difficulties in your holidays) I encourage you to read the entire recommended passages for this week. One place to find them is lectionarypage.net.

Christ is born!

Advent Three: Joy!

Traditionally, the third candle of the Advent wreath, instead of being blue or purple as the others are, is pink or red. It is also known as the Shepherd candle, reflecting the joy the shepherds felt after their initial fear and confusion.

Try to imagine what it might have been like. It's difficult to divest the story of all the meanings our life and experience have given it, but let's try.

We are on a quiet hill near Bethlehem. It's our turn to stay up with the sheep. They, woolly and warm, have long since settled down in fluffy, greasy-smelling bundles to sleep. The highest ranking sheep are on the inside of the bunch if it's a chilly night, while the lower ranking ones huddle on the outskirts, sometimes shoving inward for more warmth.

We humans huddle, too, in cloaks spun and woven of the wool of these very animals. But we have a fire, too, and in the firelight our faces are strange and shadowed. Perhaps someone is singing or playing a pipe or harp quietly. Perhaps another brings up the prophecies of Messiah and the friendly but hot discussion/debate dear to Jewish (and Adventist) hearts has begun.

Suddenly an alien being flashes into existence right next to us, and our hearts just about stop. Gasps, cries, and grabbing of rods creates a moment of chaos that disturbs the sheep, whose heads pop up nervously. But the being says, "Don't be afraid. I'm bringing you amazing news!" And we can tell, just by the look on the strange, shining face, that he is nearly bursting with excitement himself as he proceeds to announce that Messiah is here! Now! In Bethlehem! In a . . . what??

We look blankly at each other. Did he say in a feed rack? Seriously?

Then, just as our nerves are thinking about beginning to settle, there's a flash that makes our eyes see purple splotches for an hour afterward, and we hear singing such as we have never heard before. Nor will again, in this life.

GLORY TO GOD IN THE HEAVENLY HEIGHTS! PEACE TO ALL MEN AND WOMEN ON EARTH WHO PLEASE HIM!!


It's just about deafening. It's terrifying, and exciting, and joyful, and . . . then it's gone. We blink, and try to catch our breath, and turn to each other. "Did you--? Was it a dream? I-I--" We are incoherent. "You saw it too? And heard it?"

Well, let's go see!!

Stumbling over each other, still half-blind and half-deaf, maybe remembering to leave someone with the sheep and maybe not, we tumble down the hill toward the sleeping village. How could anybody still be asleep? We stumble even more when we reach the streets, which are half-full of travelers who never did find places to stay, and who don't appreciate being stepped on in their sleep. But, still incoherent, we just say, "Oh, sorry! Excuse me! He's here! Messiah's here! Didn't you hear the angels?"

We check every barn, stable, and cave that could possibly house animals. Perhaps we hear a baby's cries and see a couple of women bustling in and out with buckets and blankets. Then . . . here we are. Clumsy, embarrassed, we feel like intruders on a very intimate family scene, but the man lets us in, and the young mother smiles tiredly, and . . . there he is. Impossibly tiny, wrinkly, snuggled into linen wrappings, and only interested in his dinner.

Messiah? Really??

Advent Two--Preparation

The second candle in the Advent wreath is called the Bethlehem Candle and the Preparation Candle. I find that intriguing. How does Bethlehem connect with preparation? Several answers come to mind.

How did Joseph and Mary prepare for the trip? It seems to me that they'd be so overwhelmed with the beauty and majesty and excitement of the angel's proclamation about Who this Baby Would Really Be that they could hardly think to pack! But. . . I've been overwhelmed by God's beauty and majesty and excitement    quite a few times in my life, and I have to honestly admit, the glory fades in the face of day-to-day life. Or, as Jack Kornfeld (Ph. D., Buddhist monk, spiritual writer) puts it, "After the ecstasy, the laundry." So maybe they were more concerned with donkey feed and warm shoes and food for the journey (and worrying about backache, at 8 1/2 months along) than with Preparation for the Blessed Event. Still, when Mary tucked in the linen swaddling bands she'd spun and woven so carefully, I know she thought about that baby. I know she did!

How did Bethlehem prepare for the Visitation? Or did they, at all? The hostels and inns certainly bought extra food and hired extra hands, but that was because of the tax thing. I've often wondered, did the one who loaned them his stable say crossly, "Oh, fine, go to the cave, then! Share with the animals!" Or "Oh, dear, I wish I did have room! We have to do something! What about--well, we have the cave. . .? Will that do? I'm so sorry!" and offer help with the birthing? And in either case, what was the attitude afterwards, after the shepherds and their wild story?

How did the shepherds prepare? Were they really sitting around discussing the prophecies and wishing? What would it have been like to actually see and hear those angels? (I think I would have fainted.) And then, the journey, and the baby, who I'm sure looked just as wrinkly and unfinished and maybe funny-skulled as any other newborn. How strange! But they never forgot. I'm sure of that.

How did the angels prepare? Were they practicing their Hallelujahs? Eagerly hanging on God's words, waiting for the signal? How many were getting in each other's way hovering around that donkey and then over the stable? (Do angels get in each other's way? Or can a zillion really dance on the head of a pin?)

The Priceless Question:
How am I preparing today? For the celebration of Advent One: Which is higher on my radar--presents and parties and cookies (all good things, mind you) or devotion and caring and compassion and repentance? For Advent Two: Well, come to think of it, the comparisons are the same. Maybe not as many cookies or presents (though I don't know why) but the need for repentance and compassion and Hallelujahs is even greater, it seems to me.

He's coming! Pass it on! 

The Story of Creation-before-Creation

Psalm 104:1-8

Bless the LORD, O my soul;
O LORD my God, how excellent is your greatness!
you are clothed with majesty and splendor.

2

You wrap yourself with light as with a cloak
and spread out the heavens like a curtain.

3

You lay the beams of your chambers in the waters above;
you make the clouds your chariot;
you ride on the wings of the wind.

4

You make the winds your messengers
and flames of fire your servants.

5

You have set the earth upon its foundations,
so that it never shall move at any time.

6

You covered it with the Deep as with a mantle;
the waters stood higher than the mountains.

7

At your rebuke they fled;
at the voice of your thunder they hastened away.

8

They went up into the hills and down to the valleys beneath,
to the places you had appointed for them.

I have always loved this Psalm—who doesn’t? It gives powerful words and images to the concept of God as mighty Creator. A few years ago, I realized something new in it.

I think this is the story of creation before Genesis 1. God creates “God’s chambers,” then the angels, then the planet itself, and covers it with water. Then God begins creating the biosphere by “appointing places” for the waters. It could be said, of course, that this is a reference to the Great Flood, and perhaps it is. Or both. But I love the image of the Creation Prequel.

A few years ago I got curious about what the Bible might say about earth, water, wind, and fire, and did a complete study on each of these topics. For the sake of space, I’ll just say here that IT WAS AMAZING!

Overall, in the Bible, water, wind, and fire are used as symbols for God. Overall, in the Bible, earth and stone are us. But consider this—God created us from earth and water, breathed into us the Wind of God, and then stood us upright to look to the warmth, the light, the blessing, the purifying fire that is the presence of the Spirit.

And look! All four are explicitly visible in this passage.

Weeping and Consolation

Thus says the LORD:

Sing aloud with gladness for Jacob,

and raise shouts for the chief of the nations;

proclaim, give praise, and say,

"Save, O LORD, your people,

the remnant of Israel."

See, I am going to bring them from the land of the north,

and gather them from the farthest parts of the earth,

among them the blind and the lame, those with child and

those in labor, together;

a great company, they shall return here.

With weeping they shall come,

and with consolations I will lead them back,

I will let them walk by brooks of water,

in a straight path in which they shall not stumble;

for I have become a father to Israel,

and Ephraim is my firstborn.

Jeremiah 31:7-9a

I’ve always loved this portion of Jeremiah. There are several chapters clustered here that offer promises of hope, love, and courage. It’s from right here that the beloved promise, “I know the plans I have for you, plans for welfare and not for calamity” comes. [29:11]

This particular passage is interesting because the two verses seem to stand in contrast: “Sing and shout,” while begging, “Save your people!” In other words, the praise comes before the deliverance, before even the promise of deliverance in the next few verses.

This Sunday will be the birthday of my late husband and would have been our anniversary as well, so for me, the verse that means the most right now is “With weeping they shall come, and with consolations I will lead them back.” I am deeply grateful for the consolations of my Abba, including the consolations he offers through the arms and words of human friends. I so long for a straight path in which I won’t stumble.

How about you? Which part of this chapter most appeals?  In what ways are you most grateful for God’s deliverance, leading, and consolation?

Considering Blamelessness and Vindication

Psalm 26, Today’s New International Version

        with added commentary

¹Vindicate me, Lord,
    for I have led a blameless life;
I have trusted in the Lord
    and have not faltered.

Vindicate me through your grace alone, Lord, 

for I have not been blames, and I have faltered. . . 

but I have trusted you!

² Test me, Lord, and try me,
    examine my heart and my mind;

Because I will never understand myself until you do.

³ for I have always been mindful of your unfailing love
    and have lived in reliance on your faithfulness.

That much I can claim—I have been mindful to the best of my ability, and learned early that there was no one to rely on but you.

⁴ I do not sit with the deceitful,
    nor do I associate with hypocrites.
⁵ I abhor the assembly of evildoers
    and refuse to sit with the wicked.

I wonder what this really means? I myself, of course, have been guilty of deceit and hypocrisy, though I have striven to avoid evil and wickedness. You yourself loved and sat with sinners. Does it mean not to assemble and sit in council to plan deceit and wickedness? 

⁶ I wash my hands in innocence,

    and go about your altar, Lord,

and thank God I know where that cleansing innocence 

is to be found—in the righteousness of your Son!

⁷ proclaiming aloud your praise
    and telling of all your wonderful deeds.

When I consider your love and care and deliverance, 

I can’t stop praising you!

⁸ Lord, I love the house where you live,
    the place where your glory dwells.

A shocking thought: I am “the house where you live”!! 

Do I love me? Really? 

Not selfishly or harshly or judgmentally, but love me, as you do?

⁹ Do not take away my soul along with sinners,
    my life with those who are bloodthirsty,
¹⁰ in whose hands are wicked schemes,
    whose right hands are full of bribes.

Please, please don’t!

¹¹ I lead a blameless life;
    redeem me and be merciful to me.

Obviously even the pre-Messianic psalmist knew the blamelessness was only to be found in forgiveness and grace, otherwise why ask for redemption? I do choose your blamelessness; I do ask for and gratefully accept your mercy and redemption.

¹² My feet stand on level ground;
    in the great congregation I will praise the Lord.

Ah! Level ground, at last! Found only at the foot of the cross, in your great mercy and love.

PRAISE THE LORD!!

Lessons from the Creek

I was walking with my little Pomeranian along my creek a few days ago. Well--I was walking, she was dashing and splashing. I was surprised at how low the water level still is after all the rain we've had lately, and reflected that the drought had been so long and so hot that it would take a while to catch up. But then, the creek usually does dry up, or mostly dry up, during the summer months, and it always recovers eventually.

I always try to take our early morning walks in a prayerful mode, so it was a natural step to contemplate that I, too, "dry up" periodically. When I do, I generally panic, thinking that something is terribly wrong with me, I must not love God enough, or my fellow humans enough. Or maybe I don't healthfully love myself enough! Maybe there's something I'm supposed to be doing to care for my soul that would prevent this awful feeling of dryness, unproductiveness, isolation--give it what name you will.

I eyed the little brown stream, contentedly bubbling along (and the little blonde dog dashing about, sniffing glorious sniffs and making great waves and general delightful muddiness.) As Kentucky poet Wendell Berry says, the wild things don't "tax their lives with forethought of grief." The creek doesn't even notice that it's dry sometimes, let alone worry about it. If it could think, it would no doubt accept that it's a natural cycle, to be waited patiently through. Maybe even enjoyed. Kind of a vacation from wateriness.

It could be.

And I could accept the dry spell, trust that it's temporary, rejoice in the rest and rejoice also in the rain when it comes back. Splash in the storms and the puddles, explore the edges of my banks where the boundaries change daily, play with the puppies and the mud puppies.

I could. . .

Four Quarters

James 2:12-17:
So speak and so act as those who are to be judged by the law of liberty. For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment. What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works? Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, "Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill," and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that? So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.

I have a few disparate thoughts:
Thought one: "Mercy triumphs over judgment." If only we could remember that.

Thought two: I think this passage in its entirety is especially meaningful at this election season, but that's all I'm going to say about that!


Thought three, and maybe not so disparate after all:
The story I'll tell is about the day when some small boys first understood the principles James espouses here. I was a Sabbath School teacher for a special class, created specifically because we had a sudden influx of little boys of three and four, in between the nursery class and kindergarten, and I thought they were ready to begin to understand more about the offerings they faithfully put into the basket because their mamas gave them the quarters to do so.

I brought in an appeal letter I had received that week from a mission--I don't remember which one. It told the story of a little Chinese girl, four years old, whose name, as I recall, was Mei Li. She had been found rummaging in the dumpsters behind a grocery store, filthy and wearing rags. I read that much of the story to the boys. Their faces showed their amazement that someone of their own age had no one to take care of her.

"What do you think the grocery man should have done next, when he found her?" I asked. "Should he tell her, 'Jesus loves you, Mei Li!' and go back inside his store?"

"Well, Jesus does love her," said one of my boys indignantly, "but he wants her to have a sweater!"

"And food!" piped up another. "Was she really eating the food from the garbage can?!"

"Yes, that's all she had. Do you think we might be able to help, even though we live so far away?"

"How?" asked the boys.

"Well, let's count our quarters." We had four. "You know, of course, that one quarter won't buy food or a sweater, right?"

They took my word for it, at any rate.

"But if we send our quarters, and other people send their quarters, there will be enough to take care of Mei Li." Carefully, the boys divided up the quarters--this one for a sweater, this one for a sandwich, this one for a new dress, and this one to pay someone to give her somewhere to sleep.

Then I told them, "You'll be glad to hear the rest of the story." And I read about the store owner who had taken the little girl inside, fed her, washed her, dressed her, and taken her to the mission. The boys were pleased and relieved.

But I've never forgotten the look of comprehension on their faces as they understood for the first time that those quarters Mama gave them were to help real people, children like themselves.

Now, if only the rest of us could remember how much our mite will do, combined with the mites of lots of brothers and sisters, not just in "the mission field," but right next door and in our own pews.

Blood and Bread

John 6:51-58

Jesus said, "I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh."
The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, "How can this man give us his flesh to eat?" So Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them. Just as the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father, so whoever eats me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven, not like that which your ancestors ate, and they died. But the one who eats this bread will live forever."

When I was a young girl, there was an article in my take-home paper from church that changed my life. It explained how to take Bible stories and, using your five senses, imagine that you were really there  with Jesus (or Jonah or whoever) hearing the words, seeing the action, and gaining a particular, personal blessing. The author said to pray first for the Holy Spirit to lead you into whatever truth He wanted you to have.

There is also a 19th-century author in my denomination, Ellen White, who said pretty much the same thing. She said we should take Bible stories (especially the life of Christ) "point by point and let the imagination grasp each scene" [Desire of Ages, p. 362] and to "in imagination go back to [those] scene[s]" and "enter into the thoughts and feelings that filled their hearts." [Thoughts from the Mount of Blessing, p. 1]. I began then to take this counsel, and it revolutionized my prayer life and still does.

Many stories are easy to do this with. I can well imagine what it would feel like to be in a small boat when a storm takes over, or to be a small boy who discovers that Jesus needs his lunch.

Some are not so easy. Mrs. White mentions, for instance, that we should especially imagine "the closing scenes" of Jesus' life. This is incredibly painful. It's far more meaningful to try to "be there" than to simply read about and discuss the theological implications of whatever story is under discussion.

This story, the watershed of Jesus' ministry that we were looking forward to a couple of weeks ago, is one of the difficult ones. Not for such painful reasons, but because we can't help looking at it through layers of 2,000 years of commentary and communion customs. Those who heard these shocking words the first time did not have that luxury. I challenge us to reread, carefully, His speech, reproduced above, as if we were there, and hearing it for the first time.

What do you really think you would have thought then?
What questions would you have had for Jesus?

I hope none of us would have turned away. I hope we would have said, with Peter, "Where else would we go?"

We may not get it, Lord, but we aren't leaving!
Amen.

Worn Out

1 Kings 19:4-8

A pastor I know once gave me an entirely new look at this familiar story. It's the one of Elijah's depression after the great victory at Mt. Carmel. To recap: Elijah spends a day listening to the frenzied "praying" of Baal's priests, has an ancient altar rebuilt, finds 12 barrels of water (from where?? 3 year drought, remember?) and dumps them on the altar and sacrifice, prays quietly, watches fire from heaven destroy the sacrifice, the water, and the stones, kills (and/or supervises the killing of) 400 priests, prays for rain and gets it, runs 17 miles in front of a horse and chariot, receives a death threat . . . then runs into Judah and collapses. "Please, God, just let me die."

Do you know that feeling? I do.

Here's what I learned from my pastor friend:

The office of prophet is to be the voice of God to the people, and to be the voice of the people to God. Remember Abraham dickering over Sodom? Moses saying, "If you're going to kill them, kill me, but don't do it--you're a better God than that"?

Elijah has just hit a wall. He's burned out. He's not just tired, he's exhausted, out of gas. He has forgotten the rest of God's children and thinks he's the only one who is still faithful. It's one of the hazards of depression. The vision narrows down to just yourself. "Life is no longer worth living, God. Just let me go now."

God understands that, my pastor friend said. He doesn't judge or scold. In fact, he sends an angel to feed Elijah (which is even better than ravens and widows) and gives him the strength to go another 40 days and run some more miles. Then he talks to Elijah in person.

Shhh. Rest. I'm here.

But God also recognizes, as Elijah probably does not--almost certainly does not--that Elijah is done. He is used up. God relieves Elijah of duty.

"If you can no longer speak for the people to me, then you can no longer speak for me to the people. Go anoint two kings. Then find Elisha. Then retire."

I was startled. Seriously? It happened right after this? I picked up my Bible and looked. Sure enough, right in the next few verses. Of course, God lets Elijah spend some time training his replacement. Then he takes Elijah directly to heaven! I'm pretty sure he didn't--doesn't--mind his retirement at all! In fact, I even think I know what he talked to Jesus about, on the Mount of Transfiguration.

But that's just me. It just makes me want to pay attention. Am I, in my God-given roles, whatever they may be, careful to pay attention, to speak to people in God's behalf, and to speak to God in people's behalf? Because when we can't do that anymore, we should just retire.

The Heartburn of the 5,000 (plus women and children)

And here's the one for this week. Read the last one before this one:

John 6:24-35
The next day, when the people who remained after the feeding of the five thousand saw that neither Jesus nor his disciples were there, they themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum looking for Jesus. When they found him on the other side of the sea, they said to him, "Rabbi, when did you come here?" Jesus answered them, "Very truly, I tell you, you are looking for me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures for eternal life, which the Son of Man will give you. For it is on him that God the Father has set his seal." Then they said to him, "What must we do to perform the works of God?" Jesus answered them, "This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent." So they said to him, "What sign are you going to give us then, so that we may see it and believe you? What work are you performing? Our ancestors ate the manna in the wilderness; as it is written, `He gave them bread from heaven to eat.'" Then Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, it was not Moses who gave you the bread from heaven, but it is my Father who gives you the true bread from heaven. For the bread of God is that which comes down from heaven and gives life to the world." They said to him, "Sir, give us this bread always." Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty."

We're always told Jesus has suffered all the temptation we have. (That's besides all the temptations he suffered that we never have, like the temptation to turn stones into bread, or bring down fire from heaven. . .) I can tell you at least one time he must have been tempted to pull his hair and slap a few people around.

Let's recap.

He goes into the wilderness, but the madding crowd goes after him. He has compassion, so he teaches them and wracks his brain thinking of stories they might understand, a little. He teaches them for hours, until both he and they are exhausted. Then, instead of sending them home for supper, or for that matter, asking them to feed him, he divides them all up neatly into companies and multiplies a little bread and fish to feed them all.

[Sidetrack: I was in a Bible study group where someone said, "I read that wasn't really a miracle, he just shamed all the people into sharing what they had." The pastor and I said in unison, "What would be non-miraculous about that??"]

They like this. They really like this! Someone has a brainstorm. "We could make him king, and he could always miraculously feed armies!" Cool! Let's do that! 

Jesus disappears.

Everybody looks around in a bewildered way, then goes home, probably arguing about who saw him last and who offended him and why he doesn't want to be king. Does anybody remember even one of his stories?

Next day, they hear he might be in Capernaum, so they all beg, borrow, and steal boats to go find him. And they do! Yay!

Jesus gives them The Look. (I'll bet Jesus was really good at The Look.) "You aren't looking for me because of who I really am. You're only interested in the free food. Believe it or not, there are more important things."

Here come a couple of gems of questions. Gem #1: "What must we do to perform the works of God?" Does this mean they are making some attempt to convince him they are interested in righteousness? Or is the subtext, "How can we make magic food appear, Jesus? Huh? How?"

"This is it,"Jesus tells them. "Just trust me. That's all."

Whoosh! That's the sound of his words flying right over their heads.

Gem #2 (the real diamond!): "What sign will you give us, so we can know you're trustworthy?"

I BEG your pardon?! What sign?? This is where I'm pretty sure the temptation to hair-pulling comes into full force, if it wasn't already. But wait--there's more!! In case he isn't picking up what they're laying down, they spell it out for him. "Our ancestors ate the bread from heaven." And they quote a Bible verse for the real clincher. "Hey, Jesus, why don't you just give us manna? Yesterday might have been a fluke. Maybe my eyes deceived me. If you do it again, I'll know for sure it's for real."

Jesus doesn't pull his hair. He doesn't hit anyone. He probably doesn't even roll his eyes. He leans forward and says in his most intense voice, "Listen to me. That bread wasn't from Moses. It was from God. The true bread of heaven is that which comes down from heaven and brings life to the world."

Does even one person get it? Maybe a bunch do. I hope so. Because the crowd in general just lights up and says brightly, "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about, Jesus! Just give us this bread from heaven all the time!"

Then Jesus does something uncharacteristic. He lays it on the line. All his cards, right there on the table. He looks them in the eyes, and he says, "I AM the bread of life." I feel sure he looks directly into the eyes of whichever one or ones are actually listening. Who knows--maybe the little boy with the bread and fish. "Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty."

It's the watershed moment of Jesus' ministry, actually. He almost does give in to the temptation to be discouraged, a few verses later.

Truthfully. . . what do you think you would have said and done, if you'd been there that day?

Why?

This is actually last week's blog, for the lectionary that week, but I forgot to post it. And this week's will make less sense without it. So here it is. . .

John 6:1-15

I’m running. My bag is bumping against my side and I’m getting a little out of breath, but I don’t care. I want to be in the front, where I can see. There’s a jillion people! More people than I’ve ever seen in one place before, even when Abba took me to Jerusalem for the Feast. Seems like the world is made up of legs and elbows and walking sticks. But I’m small, and I can duck under and dash around and wiggle between, and pretty soon—here I am!

That’s more like it. There’s Jesus and those men who always surround him wherever he goes. He’s sitting down! Shh! Hurry up and be quiet, everybody! He’s sitting down like the teachers do, and I bet he’s gonna say something awesome!

----

Hours and hours have passed. Jesus’ stories are way cool, but I’m starved. Guess it’s a good thing, after all, that Mom made me bring this bag of food.

What? Me? Oh! Jesus is saying the people are hungry and they need food. Well, I guess I could share. One of the men, I heard Jesus call him Andrew, points to me. I stand up respectfully and bob my head. “Five, sir, and two salt fish, also.”

He smiled! He smiled right at me! Did you see that? I’m not so hungry. There are people hungrier, I guess. Mom will make more.

Jesus holds up my bread, like Abba does when he’s going to say the blessing. I bow my head and whisper it with him. Baruch Ata, Adonai Eloheinu, melech ha’olam, hamotzi lechem min ha’aretz.

When I open my eyes, I close them again, and rub them, and blink a few times, but the men are still passing out my bread. My bread, that Mom made this morning. I watched her do it, and it was the same old ordinary four and oil and salt and a little water! Bread and bread and more bread! Fish, too! There were only two, I swear!

Hands all around me, reaching. I’m standing here with my mouth open and forgetting to get any, so I grab some on the way by, but I just stare at it, at first. Then I taste it cautiously. It just tastes like Mom’s bread. Good. Maybe fresher, not like it rode around in my bag all day. And still Jesus and his friends are passing it around. I can’t believe it!

----

Leftovers. Can you believe it? Twelve baskets of leftovers, big ones, too! I’m taking some home to Mom. She’ll never believe this!

But here’s the weirdest thing of all. Everybody got so excited, they were going to make Jesus king. I would love that! Don’t you think he’d make the most awesome king ever? And not just because he could magically make food to feed armies, either. I heard some men talking about that. Dumb. He’d be a cool king because. . . well, just because! I never met a real king, but I don’t think there’s ever been one as good as Jesus would be.

But. . . he ran away. I don’t get it. Just kind of disappeared. I waited and waited, but his friends finally got in their boat and left.

Why did he run away? Doesn’t he want to be king?

Why?

You and Me, Two by Two, Sent Out. . . Where?

Mark 6:1-13

That's you. That's me. Jesus lays his hands on our heads and says, "Go. Don't take extra clothes or money or food. Carry your walking stick--you're going to be on the road for a while. Stick together; two heads are better than one. I hereby give you authority over demons and illness and above all, authority to spread the good news far and wide. Have fun! Let me know how it turns out." And he turns away, headed for "other villages," ones that were more willing to listen to him than his own hometown, where they thought he was getting above himself.

So we start walking. Where shall we go first? Do we just head for the nearest village? (Should we avoid our own hometowns? You know how they are!) We have. . . I'm having a hard time getting my head around this. Let's take inventory.

Between us, we have one outfit of clothing each, including sturdy sandals. Hope it doesn't get cold, or rain too much.

We have walking sticks. That ought to be helpful. Somehow. . .

 I have 97 cents and you have almost $3. That ought to get us a couple of tacos. Did he say they'd feed us? What if they don't?

We have authority over demons. Wait. Authority over demons? Illness, too. Like when he spits on people's eyes, or touches children and says "Be healed." You can do that now? Me, too? Seriously??

--------

Jesus sends out his disciples two by two. How many times have we read or heard this story? Have we really taken it in? The disciples--you know, those guys who were always missing the point, always arguing, always two steps behind Jesus--those guys have authority from God over unclean spirits and go around raising people from the dead! Judas, even, no doubt.

Where would you start? How do you find out who has the demons and needs to be rescued, and who is sick? How do you learn what the good news is for each individual? (We might have to start by listening, I'm guessing.) Because, the GOOD NEWS is the same for everybody, but beyond that, nothing is ever the same for anybody, I've noticed. And why do you think we're supposed to go together?

Any ideas?

What does "God With Us" Mean?

This week's lectionary texts have in common the idea of God caring for us through an endless variety of troubles, from war to storm to the turmoil of being whispered against and hated. But I've been wondering for years, What does that mean, "God will take care of you"?

I can tell you some things it doesn't mean:
      You or your children will have enough to eat.
      You will not lose your home or job.
      Your marriage will succeed.
      You will not be attacked, raped, or tortured.
      You will not die. in some terrible way, whether from accident, disease, or as a casualty of war.

So, if it doesn't mean any of these things, what does it mean? Is God "with us" the way Dian Fossey was "with" the gorillas? Staying as silent and unobtrusive as possible, sitting alongside with a clipboard and noting everything? Watching with the joy or sorrow each event elicits, but not interfering? Liking, even loving the apes, perhaps giving them pet names, but doing as little as possible to have any effect on the experiment? "Day, Month, Year: Debbie had a bad thing happen to her. So sad. It's hard to watch. . ."
Is God "with us" like that?

Or is it more like a friend, walking alongside us with an arm around our shoulders, crying when we cry and laughing when we laugh, listening to our irritations, woes, and celebrations and joining in them with us. . . but powerless to change anything?
Is God "with us" like that?

Or is God with us with us? Is God inside our troubles and joys, as we are? Is God in the boat when we nearly sink, in the armor when we take up the sling against our (and God's) enemies, inside our skin when we are ecstatic or depressed? When I am cut, does God bleed? When I laugh, does God's belly shake?

I recently read a small sentence that struck me: "Remember that what happens to you touches Christ first." Touches him first? I thought about it. Imagine a white board. In the center of it I make a tiny dot. That represents you or me, one human. Then, in the air around the white board, I draw a BI-I-I-I-G circle, way, way too big to fit on the white board. That represents God. When you or I "ask God to live in our hearts," what would that look like? Who would be actually "inside" of Whom?

If that were a fairly good representation of Immanuel, God With Us, then whatever came our way, good, bad, or indifferent, would definitely touch God first. And if God's infinitely bigger than we are, then I submit that God's emotions are that much bigger, too. It touches God first.

I admit, it doesn't really answer the underlying questions of why Bad Things happen (and keep on happening and happening and happening) to Good People. (Not sure I am one of those anyway.) But it does make me feel better. A little. . .

You?

What if? A Choose-Your-Own-Ending Story

What if I were in the upper room when the wind started? What if I weren't Peter, or James, or John, or even Matthias? What if I were some wholly unknown person--maybe one of the women? (Not Mary or Mary or the other Mary--someone no one ever heard of or ever will.)

I cringe in terror at the sound of a hurricane right in the house with us--we all do, even fishermen who are used to Lake Galilee's erratic and temperamental attitudes. Maybe especially those fishermen, come to think of it. But gradually our fear transforms to a holy, shivery awe as we realize this wind is not of the earth. We lower the arms we'd thrown over our faces, and lift our heads. Everyone is staring at everyone else, mouths open. I suddenly remember hearing about Jesus telling Nicodemus that the Spirit is like the wind. He said he'd send that Spirit to us--another comforter, he said. We wouldn't be alone anymore. Not that we're alone now--I've never experienced anything like this unity. Still, Jesus is gone, and it's terribly lonely!

Fire! There's fire, too? My arms prickle with chills as I watch flame divide into little tongues which settle just above each head. Mine, too? I try to roll my eyes far enough back to see above my veil, but can't. Then the murmuring begins, and quickly grows to shouts of praise and amazement. Hebrew, Aramaean, Greek, and things I can't begin to recognize--what is this?!

The joy becomes too big to contain in one upstairs room. We spill out and down the stairs in a peoplefall of singing and rejoicing, and see that crowds are gathering. "They're drunk!" someone shouts, and I have to admit, that is what it feels like. Are we drunk? On what?

Peter begins to speak and the crowd (ourselves included) quiet to listen.

But I'm not Peter, or James, or John, or Matthias. I'm not Mary or Mary or anyone that anyone has ever heard of, or ever will.

So, what happens next?

Abiding is Invisible

In John 15, Jesus tells his disciples that they need to abide in him the way branches live in a grapevine. We've been discussing and arguing and analyzing what that means ever since. We check ourselves, check each other, check our actions, and check the church manual. We make sermons and songs and blog posts about abiding.

Most of all, we try to be sure we're doing it. Doing it right. Whatever it is. We look for fruit. That should tell us. He said if we abide, we produce fruit. Well, what is fruit? Good works? Converts? Proselytes?

Here's my two-cents' worth. True abiding is invisible, and subject to Heisenberg principle. If you can look at it, it's not there. (My own slightly tilted definition.) A baby at its mother's breast has no idea there's a mommy and a me and what's flowing between us and wrapped around me is love and it's making me grow. 

It just grows.

A branch on a tree doesn't have a clue that there's a tree and a trunk and a cambium layer and water and sunshine and air. It doesn't even know there are apples. 

It just makes them.

I am above all things a discussing, arguing, analyzing checker. I couldn't possibly recommend that we quit that. So maybe we should give our busy little brains other things to discuss, argue, analyze, and check. Maybe the nature of Christ, or the history of religion, or Hebrew dualism or Greek verb tenses. Yeah, that ought to keep us occupied. In the meantime, we can be silently, constantly, almost unconsciously twining tendrils of our being into God's heart. Or, more likely, God can be twisting tendrils into ours.

We'll be abiding. Someday we'll get close enough to look the Vine and the Vinedresser in the face and hear the words, "Fruit! Good job!"

We'll be astonished. And we'll be one with the One.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#40

40. Winter ALWAYS turns to spring. A blessed Easter Resurrection to all!


Sometimes it doesn't seem like it. We've had some winters in recent years that made me think spring was never coming back again. The ones I hate the most are the ones that are long, hard, cold, gloomy, but you survive them, and wait with bated breath for the thaw. . .
         and the thaw comes, and the crocuses come up . . .
                      and you're just starting to release your breath and sing praises. . .
                                          -----and a deep freeze from you-know-where sets in!
(Do they have deep-freezes you-know-where?)
The thermometer dips into single digits, the crocuses shrivel up (you can hear them crying), the clumps of daffodils wish they could change their minds and tunnel back down, and robins sit on branches, puffed up into little balls, shivering and discussing their Florida winter in annoyed chirpings.

This winter wasn't like that at all, where I live. The thermometer hung out in the 50s and 60s with some forays into the 70s. Sunshine was often in evidence. We had, if I recall correctly, two winter days in November, two or three in January, about a week in February, and that was it. It was pleasant, but unnerving. Are we also going to be 30 degrees above normal in July?! Once again, we missed spring, but in a different way. During about one week in March, everything from crocuses to lilacs and tulips bloomed, and that was it. 80s. Welcome to summer, and you're going to have to hire someone with a Real Mower to do the labyrinth park before you can even ride the mower around it.

Life is the same way. You can sit in cold and gloom and dark until you're pretty sure the sun will never shine again. Your heart lifts in wary hope at every sign of God's glory leaking through the clouds, and then plunges in despair when the next calamity strikes. Is it worth it? Or everything seems unnervingly Nice, and you try to enjoy the gift of each day without looking too deeply into its mouth or waiting for the other shoe to fall. (Was that enough metaphors for you? I could throw in something about tempting fate, the sword of Damocles, or maybe Murphy and his infamous Law!)

Here's what I've learned: Spring always comes. Always. Always. Eventually. Really. Hold on, and wait for the Resurrection. Not just the Big One, in the Sky By and By, but the little, daily resurrections that God sends in the midst of the doom and gloom. And meanwhile, do enjoy the bright days. And don't look in their mouths.

CHRIST IS RISEN! HE IS RISEN INDEED!!

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#39

39. It never stops growing, no matter what.

I suppose this may not be true in the strictest sense. I know that when the temperature falls below 40 degrees, grass stops growing, and most other things are dormant in the winter, too. Some things actually have to have a certain number of days below freezing in order to thrive. But that dormant season is only for the purpose of resting and storing energy so that everything can begin anew in spring.

It starts before you can see it. Underneath a crust of snow, perhaps, or down in the mud of an early thaw, roots begin to stir. Insects and worms think about moving again. Sap starts creeping up the “veins” in tree trunks and vines. Long before any green appears, there’s a red tinge to briers, but you only notice it at a distance, where there are a lot of branches together in one mass. After a while, there’s a certain odor—more like a feel to the air. It’s almost as if your own veins begin to stir a little, your brain cells start to stretch and yawn.

Then one day, the grass is suddenly greener than it was last week, and there are hard little buds on the reddening berry vines and a reddish tinge up in the very tops of the tall trees, too. Then—there it is! A crocus! Those birds and beasts and berries and leaves that were slowly stretching a week ago are in a tearing hurry all at once, and you’re already behind on mowing and digging and planting . . . and it’s spring!

I’ve lived long enough to spend a lot of time feeling sluggish and dormant and worrying that everything in my heart looks dead and brown and hopeless. I’ve learned that most of what seems dead isn’t, that it’s easier to tell what is truly past hope and needs cut off after the greening season begins again, and most important of all, that only the Master Gardener knows for sure which is dead and which just needs pinching back in order to spring forth twice as vibrant as before. The problem is, of course, getting pinched back hurts! It doesn’t feel like something that’s going to cause growth. I don’t like it! I don’t suppose my grape vines, do, either.

I always apologize and try to do it gently and quickly. I’m pretty sure they’re okay with it. Because it’s the growth, the fruit, that really matters.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#38

38. Heaven can see all of it, all the time.


Throughout these weeks of Lent, one of the continuing themes has been the confusion that can occur when the path seems to lead in directions you wouldn't expect. You can sometimes see the center, but not the path, or see the path, but not the center. Many labyrinths are flat, made on stone or concrete, and a walker can see all of them at once from anywhere on the path. Mine is flat, too, and now, while the trees and vines are young, you can see most of it. But as it grows, that will be less possible.

In life, however, you can never see more than about three steps back and one or two forward. Sometimes it's hard to see your own toes! Don't you wish you could rise up to about treetop level and look down on the whole pattern of your life? Even if you still couldn't see the future, it would be nice to find out if there was some semblance of a pattern in what has already taken place. Or maybe it wouldn't. Maybe we still couldn't recognize the pattern even if we could see it. The problem is, the path is years long (sometimes many fewer years than we wish, sometimes many more. . .) and on top of that, there's this unbelievable jumble of paths overlooking and intersecting each other. Every person in your life, from the waitress you met once to your parents and spouse and closest friends, whose lives have intertwined with yours (and yours with theirs) for decades, has a pattern all his or her own. Who could possibly make sense of the fractals and Golden Sections and spooky quantum physical weirdness that results from all that?

God can, that's who. Only God. Heaven sees my labyrinth, and yours, and hers and his and theirs. The rain falls and the sun shines and there are droughts and feasts and famines and epidemics and lush bounty and blessings beyond the possibility of numbering. And that's enough.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#37

37. In order for someone to eat, fruit has to give its life.


Worse and worse! Okay, so the flowers of youth and beauty came along, and we oohed and aahed and enjoyed them, and then they faded and fell. We were sad, but behind the petals small, hard fruits began to swell. So we said, "Well, the flowers have to fade to produce fruit, and we'll be glad for the fruit, so I guess we can sigh and live without the flowers."
Then we pick it. And eat it. And it's gone.
The tree is stripped of all that fruit it worked so hard to make, and its leaves are dry, and rusty at the edges. It looks tired, drained. The summer is over. Autumn arrives, and even the leaves fall.
The tree stands, silent, bare, spiky. . . dead? Not dead. Sleeping. Waiting.
But we, who eat the fruit, live on because of it. You could even say that the fruit has lived and died for its purpose, fulfilled the reason for which it was created, and moved into a "higher state of being." It's changed from juice and peel and crunchy flesh to bone and blood and human muscle.
Weird.
Is it glad, this little fruit? Is the tree happy, fulfilled? Is it content to wait quietly for spring?
I don't know. Here's what I know: The tree is not finished. There will be more leaves. There will be lovely blossoms again and we will ooh and aah. New little fruits will swell and grow and fill us and become us and we will live on because of them.
Spring will come again.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#36

36. In order to get fruit, flowers have to give their lives.


I can't really believe these posts are coming up right when they are. I wrote and numbered these last year, and this year am simply taking them in the order they come and pondering them, then writing devotionals about them. "In order to get fruit, flowers have to give their lives." Who in the blazes thought of this piece of wisdom?!
That was me, I guess. Last year, when both my husband and my mother were still alive. I watched the petals fall, as they have fallen in this past week from my old June apple tree, papering the garden underneath with snowy fragrance, and I mused, "Hmmm, we talk about the flowers that never fade, but in fact, if the petals didn't fall, there would never be apples."
I thought there was a good metaphor for life in there. The things you love so much in your life fall away, and you grieve them, but maybe there will later be fruit, even from that loss.
Yada yada.
It's so easy to write about. . . when it's not happening. It's even possible to taste and share and rejoice (bittersweetly) in the growth of compassion and generosity that you discover when, for instance, a much-beloved husband is finally set free from a long, torturous illness. But when you have just begun to rise again from that long draining and exhaustion, and then you lose a vital mother who came from a long line of people who lived 90 years and more and was in no way ready to go. . . what fruit could be worth that? It's also possible to have blossoms fall before they are mature, and produce no fruit at all.
Then again. . .It's not true that she was in no way ready to die. In the only way that matters, she was always ready to die. That is, she was in the path and never left it and never turned back and never gave up. She has arrived at the Center of Centers. And she certainly produced fruit, a hundred-fold at least. It is no exaggeration to say that there are likely 10,000 people in this world whose lives were directly blessed by the touch of my mother. Among whom, I am chief.
I can only thank the Great Gardener for the blossoms, the fruit, the strong arms, and the sturdy trunk of this tree, so short a time among us, so steady in taking up nutrients, breathing in the life-giving breezes, drinking in the rain, basking in the sun. God make me half that beautiful a tree! (Did I tell her that enough?)
Rest in the arms of God, Mommy. I miss you so much!

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#35

35. The roses aren't always in bloom. . .


It's all very well for people to admonish you to stop and smell the roses, but until about a century ago, roses bloomed once, for perhaps two weeks, in mid-spring. That's why they came to be synonymous with evanescent youth and beauty. Maybe it's symptomatic of our youth-chasing culture that in the 19th century breeders began working on those few roses which re-bloomed briefly in fall, and have eventually created roses that now bloom all summer.
Still, even those roses aren't always in bloom. So even though there's time to stop and smell the roses when you walk the labyrinth, it can't always be done. You might have to find something else to "be present to" and appreciate.
Sometimes that's hard.
Other times it's nearly impossible.
Two days ago, I learned that my beloved, young, healthy, strong mother had been found dead in her home. The screaming hysterics didn't last, though I don't imagine I'm through with them. I'm in that numb zone familiar to those who are familiar with grief--the zone in which you make and receive about 500 frantic phone calls, talk fairly reasonably to funeral directors and pastors, just as if you really know what you're doing or saying, hunt down plane tickets and fill suitcases, and crowd together with other suffering family members and then find yourself laughing but avoiding crying.
Don't worry, the crying will be back soon enough. My mother is dead!! How can the world possibly go on without Mother in it?! The idea is incomprehensible, terrifying, obscene!
But I'm not the only one familiar with grief. Neither are you. Jesus is "the man of sorrows and acquainted with grief" Isa 53:3. He has walked this labyrinth before me, and walks it beside me and my family, and beside you, too.
And the roses will bloom again.
This I know.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#34

34. There's always time to stop and smell the roses.


Walking a labyrinth must never become jogging a labyrinth, or running a labyrinth. It's a slow process; it's meant to be. You move along quietly, putting one foot in front of the other, minding the path and the turns, (especially if maintenance has been neglected). It's easy to get so caught up in an introspective state that you don't even notice your surroundings at all.

Sometimes that can be a good thing. There may be some essential inward work going on which requires all your attention. The labyrinth and its paths may be only a sort of ordering tool--something to keep you moving but dictate those movements so you don't have to think about them, let alone make decisions. There is nothing to distract you from what God is doing inside you.

It's also possible to have the opposite experience--to look around, enjoy the sights and smells, and turn the whole journey into a sightseeing trip while no interior work at all gets done. Sometimes, this can be a good thing, too. I've noticed that it's the way children always walk the labyrinths. We don't need to forever have our noses buried in our belly buttons. It can be a prayer in itself, just walking along, joyfully taking in the sky, the breezes, the sights of grass or blossom or leaf, the progress of fruits.

It's not such a good thing if it makes you lose the path entirely. Still, as long as you're inside the labyrinth, you're never too far from the path, and will be able to find it again, though figuring out the direction you were going might take a bit longer. It's always a tricky operation, guiding children in the right path without stifling their creative little souls (God made them that way), encouraging them to explore without trampling the young blueberries and to try fruit without gashing themselves on thorns, and teaching them, not just to stay on the path, but to know it well enough that they'll be able to stay on it by themselves when you are no longer at hand to guide them.

Having them around will remind you that there is always time to stop and smell the roses. Even in the midst of whatever inner crisis you are undergoing, looking up and discovering a rosebud or a butterfly or a little, hard, green grape beginning to fatten will give your soul relief and remind you that God is only stirring around in your insides for the purposes of creation and re-creation. Conversely, when you are wandering happily along noticing all the blossoms and grass and breezes, the discovery that the raspberries are reaching out long, thorny arms to snag you again will remind you that there is also work to be done, that even when life is a bowl of cherries, somebody has to plant, tend, and harvest those cherries, and each one has another seed of life inside it.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#32, 33

32. It reminds me of the Fibonacci Series.
33. That is, the Golden Spiral around which everything's created. 


Odd, I know, but here's the story: Last year, these 40 Ways were created as Twitter posts, and you know all about the 140 characters, right? Well, it doesn't make sense to make two separate devotionals out of these two, so we'll have 39 Lenten devotionals, and one for Easter!

The Fibonacci Series, for those who don't know, is a series of numbers beginning with 0, 1, and from then on each number is the sum of the last two. So: 0,1,1,2,3,5,8,13,21. . . etc. It's named after a man named Leonardo of Pisa, who was also known as Fibonacci. He was the one who introduced the concept to western mathematics, in 1202, although it had already been described even earlier than that, in Indian mathematics.

If you plot these numbers on a graph, they create an enlarging spiral that will look very familiar to you. Perhaps you'll know why--"Hey! That looks like a chambered nautilus!" Or perhaps you'll just think vaguely, "That looks familiar. I wonder where I've seen it before?" The answer is, Everywhere! Just now when I put "Fibonacci" into Google, the third website on the list was titled, "The Fibonacci Numbers and Golden Section in Nature," and included hundreds of ways you can see these patterns.  www.maths.surrey.ac.uk/hosted-sites/R.Knott/Fibonacci/fibnat.htm The Golden Section is also called the Golden Mean, the Golden Ratio, and Divine Proportion. You could call it a visual representation of the Fibonacci Series (or Numbers, or Sequence.) And it's literally found all over the natural world, from the spiral of hairs in your cowlick to the seeds of a sunflower to the end of a pine cone. Put any of the above words into Google Images and you'll see hundreds of astounding things.

I think the Divine Proportion is truly divine. I think it's the fingerprint of the Creator. My labyrinth reminds me of it. And in the midst of all the chaos of seemingly random and senseless events that fill our lives (like alopecia in someone who, therefore, has no cowlick, a diseased sunflower that doesn't produce seeds at all, or a stunted pine cone) it's comforting to think there's some kind of underlying pattern, whether it's always visible or not.

Life, right down to its DNA, seems to move in endless spirals, growing outward, larger and larger, from the spinning of atoms to the spinning of galaxies. So do the seasons roll, and so does my life, and yours, come around again and give us a kind of second chances. In Elizabeth Goudge's book The Scent of Water, a character reassures another that life is like beads on a string, and the loving acts you didn't succeed in performing for someone earlier in your life (and now you live in regret) will come around again, and you'll get a chance to try again, to be loving not to the same person, but to another brother or sister in the circle of life.

But there is a center. There is an end to the path. Today might be the last chance you get to love, so grab it. Add together the amount of love you could give yesterday and the amount you could give today, and give that much tomorrow.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#31

31. The Quiet Center is always there.


It's a funny thing. I get busy with pruning grape vines and mowing and checking fruit trees (there's some weird white fuzzy stuff in my apple branches! What is that??) and mowing and planting the new American Highbush Cranberries and mowing and everlastingly mulching and mowing. . . It gets to seeming like a busy place. I forget about the quiet center. But it's always there. Quiet. Waiting. The tree never gets upset when I don't visit it. Well, I do visit it. I cut out lower branches, and trim weeds and debate about a circle of stones. . .

And mow! Or put off mowing.

And the quiet center waits.

In life, I get busy with writing and housework and writing (and labyrinth care) and gardening and shopping and laundry and writing. I check on the goats (new twin boys born three days ago as of this writing! Adorable!) I feed the chickens and collect eggs and try to remember to whom I owe this particular dozen. I write deeply moving and insightful blogs! Or I try, anyway. Only, sometimes I have to stop and remind myself to take the insights I'm being given through the words I'm writing (it's one of God's favorite ways to talk to me) and apply them to my own soul.

God is there. Quiet. Waiting.

Always.