Thanksgiving Day

The brook runs rapidly, almost overflowing. The white foam pushes up where the water twists, turns, dips among the rocks, around and under the fallen limbs, leaving behind autumn leaves and fallen pine needles. The gold remains, strewn, scattered, tossed. They dared to ride the current, an adventure with a friend, and found themselves left behind without a thought, soggy, thrashed, to sleep into the earth. The wet, green moss on rock, tree, and land reminisces summer past. But the river runs on with abandon, not of will, but where it may with frantic force; its time will soon stand still, its torrent a cold, silent memory. Already, frozen droplets on chilled stone surfaces and icicles hanging down from fallen limbs speak the pressure of time. "Go! Go! For soon you, too, will flow no more - until Spring, if you make it through all the force of winter. But what then? Will you recognize your comrades, let alone yourself, to rejoin in the endless rush? Or might you, perhaps, find yourself in a place, and in a form, that is completely foreign to your current sense?" A water droplet is life. And it may, in itself, have more power quietly trickling alone deep into the soil, evaporating into the dry night air, nurturing a newborn root, than in a rushing, noisome torrent. Do not fear the change. 

Dawn

 As one long, deeply sleeping

    feels the soft touch of sunrise:

        undefinable moment of cell-shivering expectation,

            almost unconscious breeze of movement,

                softest of light silently displacing a fraction of darkness,

                    first bird note,

                        awareness lightly stirring,

                        more light, more bird notes,

                    light overcoming darkness, symphony of bird song,

                color's silent eruption across the sky,

            beauty surrounding and flowing through the sleeper,

        hope and gladness open their eyes,

    one moment of blissful, ethereal peace.

A summons to hope, to work, to pray, to trust, to love, to live.

He Is Risen

    I’d like to tell you a story that happened while I was in South Carolina shortly before I moved back to New Hampshire.

    During my five-month stay with family, I had longed to find a quiet, reflective place of beauty with religious overtones, where I could sit, be still, and listen to God. It would be our special place -- alone, together. One day as I was driving through a nearby neighborhood, I noticed an Episcopal church with a large green space. I pulled into the parking lot and saw a secluded area that looked like a garden. It was a labyrinth. Perfect! I could walk the labyrinth and sort out all my thoughts, get clarity, find purpose, and receive healing to move forward in life.

    Perhaps you know that labyrinths were created as a symbolic spiritual pilgrimage, especially meant for those Christians who could not go on an actual pilgrimage. The idea behind the spiritual pilgrimage was to walk by foot, facing trials along the way, to arrive at a holy place that held the relics of a saint. Once you arrived and honored the relics, you would retrace your steps home, expecting a special blessing from that saint in your life.

    I went there weekly and walked, silently, reflectively, waiting for answers as I followed the path, read the inscription at the center, and retraced my steps back to start. I had been doing this for three months when, one day after walking the labyrinth, I woke up to my reality and realized that this walking was an exercise in futility. Of course no answers would come to me simply by walking. I was being silly. A labyrinth isn’t magical. But, then, neither had God shown up for me with any answers as I had hoped.

    I walked away, deciding it had been a nice quiet place, and that this would be my last visit. As I reached my car, the thought came to me to walk the labyrinth one more time. “Why?” I asked. “There’s no point.” But the thought persisted, gently, unyieldingly. So, I turned back to walk it again.

     This time, instead of giving my thoughts to my problems as was my habit, I paid attention to each step, each turn along the path. Toward the center – away from the center -- toward the center – away from the center. Every time I seemed to get close to the center, my path turned away from the center. Back and Forth. Over and Across. Toward and Away. Always coming close, but never arriving. Just like my life.

    Finally, as my mind was numbing out at the endless journey of frustration, I turned a corner and found myself walking into the center. I knew what I would find there: the same empty circle, the same single tile in the center of the floor, and the same non-descript message on that tile written in four languages. I walked the circumference of the center and once again squatted down to read the tile.

     I stooped over the tile in the floor, thinking about the futility of a life that spends half its time striving to reach its goal, a few fleeting moments at its destination, and then the rest of its life walking the same frustrating path in reverse. Futile. Vain. Empty – just like the labyrinth.

     But then very quietly and gently my view shifted. Life isn’t like a labyrinth, I realized. A labyrinth is like life. The ancients in their wisdom created the labyrinth to represent life in all its endless, unexpected twists and turns. Then I thought about the message on the tile. The ancients had chosen that, too, in their wisdom and understanding of life. This message on the tile in the center of this empty destination must mean more than what it had seemed to me.

     I read the message again and contemplated what it meant for this frustrating journey of life: “He is risen.” I read it slowly, He – is – risen.  He - is - risen. In four languages it was written, “He is risen.” And my mind went to the rest of the scripture from which that statement is taken, “He is not here, for he is risen, just as he said. And he is going before you into Galilee. There you will see him.” And I thought of Jesus’ final words before his ascension into heaven, “I am with you always, even to the end of the age.”

     I breathed slowly as the glorious meaning dawned on my heart anew. An old message. A message I’ve known all my life. But, this time in a tangible way that I needed more than ever for this season that I’m in. I stood up and retraced my path away from the center. With each step, at every turn, the Answer I had been seeking -- the Clarity, the Purpose, the Goal, the Center -- was with me. My answer is a Person. The God of the Universe. Who is with me at every step along the journey of life with all its twists and turns.

Blessed Be the Man Who Took Notice of You!

This morning during Lexio Divina, the word that popped out at me was “man.” It was a negative trigger. In an instant, my soul was flooded with angry thoughts and bitter feelings toward “man.” “Man” had hurt me badly, done me terrible wrong, abused me, used me up and threw me out like a worn out, overused rag left only with holes and raggedy fringes. And without a thought or care of all that I had given him. That is what “man” was to me!

But the man this passage was talking about was a man we women all love. Boaz! I felt resentment toward him because he belonged to a sex whose power could crush a woman. Take a breath, Hyde. Smell the coffee, cool the coffee.

This man took notice of an outsider, a despised foreigner who was poor and vulnerable with two mouths to feed. Yes, he did have the power men have that can crush a woman’s life. And he had the position to do it. But he used his power to give life, not to take it. And the natural, down-to-earth, healthy response is, “Blessed be the man who took notice of you!”

“May he be blessed by the Lord, whose kindness has not forsaken the living or the dead,” Naomi said to Ruth. Boaz lived in the character and the blessing of the Lord.

And then the Lord turned my thoughts toward “man” again. Who have been the other men in my life? The ones who have used their power to give me life? I had to think. Well, let’s see. There was Dave. And there was Rand. And Conrad and David. There was John, Nick, Will, Josh, Steve, Dick, Joe. There were all the men I met at Alongside, and the men at Fairhaven who cared for me; my brother who opened his home to me; my Uncle who called me faithfully; my cousins; and all the men in the past still within reach should I seek them out. All these good men throughout my life who have taken notice of me! My soul was flooded again, this time with images of precious memories and endearing thoughts of each and all of these men. My eyes crinkled and sparkled with joy! My lips curved into a smile. My mouth parted, and I was laughing!

Thank you, Lord, for gently turning my face to your ever-present kindness.