Advent Morning - Wednesday, Dec. 2, 2015

The fog was very dense this morning and there was a light drizzle of rain.  I drove through the middle of the city and noticed that only one of the many Christmas decorations on the lamp posts was lit. Yes, only one trying its best to be seen through the fog.  A mile beyond the lone lamp post Christmas decoration was an elderly man standing on the side of the road … tousled white hair and wearing shorts on this December day.  He held a small tree branch high above his head and was shouting something to those of us who passed by.

It occurs to me that these moments in my morning are much like the beginning days of our Advent. A (Christmas) Light shine in the darkness and a voice cries out (in the fog), “In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD, make straight in the desert a highway for our God.

This was my Advent morning.

"My Ears Had Heard of You ..."

(Mark 10:46-52)

We can be found

along life’s road …

disciples who have 'seen',

followers who rebuke,

one of many in a

muttering crowd,

overlooking (or stepping over)

the one,

the beggar

whose only possessions

are faith and hope

and a name

that is covered

with the dust

of his or her days.

A dusty faith whispers,

“My ears have heard of you, O LORD …

my ears have heard of you.”

How many shouts

from the roadside

have been the very cries

heard that day …

“JESUS, SON OF DAVID,

HAVE MERCY ON ME …

SON OF GOD,

HAVE MERCY ON ME!”

A stepped-over hope whispers,

“My ears have heard of you, O LORD..

my ears have heard of you.”

There is no contentment

in hearing alone.

The implications are great

and costly for us all

in the one answered question …

“What would I have you do for me?

I WANT TO SEE!”

And the one

who has answered the question

declares with certainty of sight,

“My ears had heard of you, O LORD,

but now my eyes have seen you!”

He is any one of us

who have now 'seen' ...

those who have new sight

are beggars no more

for there are riches in Love

and great wealth

to be found

in such witness

of ears that had heard

and eyes that now see.

"Privileged and Assured"

This morning, I alone

saw a single leaf

break away

from its branch

and fall 

to the ground.

Among the 

hundreds of 

golds and

reds and

oranges, 

it has found

its place.

The privilege

of it all 

(or the sadness

of it all)

is that

I am

the only one

who knows

where it landed.

And yet,

somewhere 

the  psalmist whispers

in the gentle breeze …

“You know when I sit down 

and when I rise up” …

and I am assured

that the One who

knows me,

knows this leaf

and celebrates all

stages of its

beauty.

"Still, There is Hope"

(Ponderings on Mark 10-17-31)

"My soul is restless until I find rest in Thee." For this reason and because of the life-changing love of Jesus, I have a lot of hope for this rich man found in Mark 10:17-31. I can only hope that he didn't walk away from Jesus forever. I hope that he didn't grow old among his riches and gods. I hope and pray that whatever it was that made him restless in the beginning, kept him restless until he found rest in God alone. There seemed to be a crack in the wall of this rich young man's own kingdom .. a crack that caused a restlessness, a crack that brought him face to face with Jesus and a crack that hopefully allowed the Holy Spirit to work from within his "walls" and hesitancy. So for him (and for so many of us), "Still, There is Hope".


“What must I do?” he asked.
“I am decent and good
and follow God’s commandments.
Tell me, what must I do
to inherit this eternal life
of which you speak?”

The answer was
simple, yet costly.

‘GO.
SELL.
GIVE.
COME.
FOLLOW,”
was the reply.

The man’s face fell
and in sadness
he turned
and walked away.

And yet,
Jesus looked at him
and loved him.

Still,
there is hope …
for this rich man.

And still,
there is hope …
for each of us.

"The Way of HOPE"

I'm afraid that we have watered down HOPE by too often equating it with our wishes.  As a writer I see words as having different dimensions to them.  Wishes are very flat to me as mere words on a piece of paper in wish-list form; words that have no true hope or love behind them.  No change of heart, no change of posture, no promise, no relationship between God and us.  But HOPE ... oh my, HOPE is different!

I am reminded of an old family Polaroid picture that is a favorite of mine.  My younger brother, Steve, when he was a very small child, would always approach my grandmother with cupped hands.  He would stand still before her, cup his little hands together, close his eyes and lower his head.  He stood before her in the hope that she might have a piece of candy or a surprise to place in his hands.  More times than not, she did.  You know how grandmothers are.

But there were times when she had only love to give him and that seemed to be sufficient for the moment.  The picture shows a little boy, with cupped hands, closed eyes, head lowered and a smiling grandmother bent low, trying to look into his face, ready to pour out unimaginable love on my brother.  The beautiful thing about this was that having nothing at that moment to place into Steve's hands was never a deal-breaker.  This little boy continued to love his grandmother and his grandmother continued to love him.  Those days when he hoped for something, yet when his hopes were not immediately realized, did nothing to discourage him from coming before our grandmother in hope again.

Our love for God and God's love for us isn't conditional to each of our hopes placed before God being realized in the way that we want them to be or even revealed to us at all.  But when we discover the way of HOPE, we see love also ... unconditional love flowing between God and a beloved child.

"Knotted by Love"

In November, 1981, my Grandmother Lazenby asked what I wanted for my birthday. I wanted her to teach me tatting, that beautiful fading art of making knotted lace. There had been so many times when I would watch her make beautiful little pieces with a tatting shuttle and white cotton thread. I can still picture her hands as she went about her tatting (my hands are looking more and more like hers as I age). In 1981, Grandmommy was diagnosed with cancer and more than anything, I didn't want her days (nor mine) to slip by without this teaching moment between a grandmother and granddaughter.

That evening, she tried and tried and tried to teach me … to give me the birthday gift of my choosing. I couldn't grasp it. I couldn't figure out the movements or the rhythm with the shuttle to create this special knotted lace. I went home that night in tears, knowing that I would never learn this art from her. I kept working into the wee hours of the morning, with shuttle in hand and tears in my eyes and feeling helpless in so many ways. And then it happened. At 2:30am the next morning, I knotted one little rosette! My one and only piece of tatting but I did it! It was a long and emotional process to get to that point. Perhaps, even more than the desire to learn tatting and even more than the tiny accomplishment itself was the need and the desire to pray and cry out in those early morning hours for my grandmother.

It has been said that you can cut a piece of tatting anywhere, but it won’t ravel. Families are much like tatting. You can cut them and it might make a flaw in the piece, but they won’t unravel because they are knotted by love.

I might have to try my hand at tatting again. I still have her shuttle and thread and now I have her hands (and hopefully, her heart).

"Surely, It Won't Amount to Anything"

There are days when I know that errands will eat up my lunch hour and there won’t be any time that is mine to claim. That is what I thought would happened yesterday. That and nothing more. Going to the bank and filling up my car with gas before the rains arrived was on my lunch agenda.

The gentleman in front of me at the gas pump was elderly. He was someone Norman Rockwell would have immediately noticed. He wore a little cap and his pants were hiked up (or is it hitched up?). His face was slender and wrinkled and his eyes had little expression. His head was down, his shoulders were bent as if carrying a heavy burden and he shuffled when he walked. But then it happened. A most wonderful transformation. He lifted his head and smiled. His eyes began to twinkle. His wrinkled face almost immediately took on a boyish look. He stopped pumping gas and waited - waited until the fire truck pulled up to the diesel pump on the other side of our gas pumps. He waited until the fireman jumped out of the truck and he shouted, “I LOVE FIRE TRUCKS! I ALWAYS HAVE! I LOVE FIRE TRUCKS!” The fireman walked to him and asked, “Would you like to take a look at her?”

It was as if, at that very moment, the elderly man remembered how he felt when Santa Claus placed in his hands his first toy fire truck. I was overjoyed for the man to the point of tears.

(And I thought my lunch hour wouldn't amount to anything. Ha!)

"Either/Or"

It is my thinking that
there are dog people
or cat people
and there are
math people
or word people.
There are Heinz people
or Hunts people…
life always seems to be
either/or
with allegiance
to one instead of both.

I have always
considered myself to be
a mountain person,
with dreams of a bungalow
in a small mountain town,
with the tune and whispers of
“It is Well With My Soul”
in my heart,
and with silence and tears
at the first sights of
the Blue Ridge Mountains …

and yet,
a clear view of the ocean
and the sound of the
waves and the
wonders and mystery
of God’s constraints
as the vast body of water
limits itself upon the shore
fill me with words
that rush into the
shoreline of my soul
much like the
waves themselves.

Perhaps, it isn’t
‘either/or’ for me
but the gift of
what is most needed
at the time that it is
most needed …
a mountain person
or an ocean person
and the Holy One knows
which is best for me,
when.

"Whispers of Independence"

EN ROUTE 9-15-15 7:45am

I travel a portion of Johnson Street 5 days a week and, more times than not, there is a brief moment of goodness to be seen. Other times, there is something that makes me wonder about a person’s life. I always welcome the wave and smile of the crossing guard at the elementary school. Often I see a little girl skipping down the sidewalk with her book bag bouncing up and down. Yesterday, a mother was all but dressing her little boy as he sleepily made his way to school. I could almost hear her say, “Raise your arms, put on the sweater, now for the book bag. Stop so I can smooth your hair. It’s sticking up everwhichaways!” (OK, so I had to throw in ‘everwhichaways’ as it is a perfectly good word)

This morning, I saw two little children, a brother and sister, walking to school. It brought back those first moments of independence given to me by my mother … that first time when she asked me to ride my bicycle to the store to buy sugar. “You can put it in your basket. Don’t forget to bring the change back.” Or at Ocean Drive Beach when she gave me $1.00 and said that I could walk to the corner drugstore to buy postcards or what would prove to be a tacky souvenir. I smiled as I saw these two little ones walking to school this morning. I whispered, “Independence” and nodded my head. Then I saw her. I saw the mother hiding behind a column on the stoop of their mill house. Hiding and peeking from behind the column. Watching her beloved children walking away from her.

So I guess (or I hope) that’s what it’s like as I begin my own day and as I walk to my car and as I drive away from my apartment. Perhaps like this mother, God is leaning out from the stairwell, looking my way, watching this beloved child named ‘Anna’ as she drives off into the unknowns of the day. The whispers of a mother who is peeking out from behind a column on the stoop of her small house and the whispers of God who is seeing us all off into our day are much the same … “I love you, my children. Go and be who I have made you to be.”

"Preparing for Another Day"

EN ROUTE 9-11-15

I see him often on my way to work. He stands tall, this man of the streets. He wears camouflage pants, a hoodie sweatshirt and a knit toboggan cap even on the hottest of days. When I usually notice him, he is already walking on the sidewalks of South Main Street. This morning was different. He must have overslept. This giant of a man stood on the sidewalk (his path to who-knows-where) and began to do his morning stretches. He stood on one leg and bent his other leg, up and down. He switched and stood on the other leg. Again, he bent his leg, up and down. Then he stretched his arms far above his head. It was a good stretch like most of us do in our mornings. Does he whisper, “That feels so good” just as I do?

This morning, en route, I witnessed someone who seems to have spent the night on the streets. I drove by just as he prepared his body to spend the day on the streets, walking … walking … walking.

"O God, my prayers are that he might not be too hot in the clothing he wears, that he receives the sustenance his body needs for this day, that his morning stretches keep his joints from hurting, that there might be some rest in his day, that he might be safe and that he might receive another smile and another wave from someone other than me. Walk with him, please walk with him. Whisper "beloved child" to him. Amen."

"Careless"

EN ROUTE 9-10-15:

 There is a lovely (but locked) iron fence that surrounds a small lush green area beside of a downtown church. I pass by it each morning of my work-week and always glance its way. What I suspect to be a meditation area is fully visible from the sidewalk and very enticing yet beyond reach for those who most need a place of respite.

As I glanced its way, I noticed a wooden cross from the inside of this grassy area leaning carelessly against the iron fence. It reminded me that there was nothing “careless” about Jesus turning his sights to Jerusalem. There was nothing “careless” about Roman crucifixions. There was nothing “careless” about the Resurrection. And it should never be “careless” in the way that we welcome others (or keep others at arm's length).

This morning, I felt as if there is a message of carelessness visible in a leaning cross and a small place of peace that lies beyond locked iron fences.

"Tripping and Falling"

When I trip over

disappointments

and hurts …

when I stumble over

self-pity

and failed expectations …

when I fall face-down,

only to taste 

the red dirt 

that has settled

around me,

you lift me up, O God,

brush me off and

hold me tight

as you whisper,

“My clumsy beloved child, 

I will not let you

remain face-down

in my beautiful field of grace.

You will miss 

all that is beautiful

and good

if you choose to stay

where you fall.”

Sigh.... what wondrous love.

"Hear My Prayer"

O God, we all have moments of joy and grief and fears and peace but sometimes we forget that “we” includes pastors. God of Comfort and Peace and Presence, I pray that you will surround my poet/pastor friend who is grieving a son’s death, my wise spiritual sis/pastor friend who is facing health issues and my own pastor whose mother has passed away. This week has been hard for them. Wrap these, your servants, with your love and comfort and peace. I pray for them and all other pastors I call friends in their unspoken needs. Love them with the depth of love that they have been called to share with us. Make their continued testimony to your Great Love first-person in ways that are only yours to do.

AMEN.

"Insulting the Maker"

A dear friend shared the Moravian Daily Text with me this morning . The first verse in the text was "Those who oppress the poor insult their maker." (Proverbs 14:31)

My first inclination, my knee-jerk reaction as I read these words, was to point fingers at others. Then, the words turned on me with lightning speed in my own silent accusations. Just as Atticus Finch in 'To Kill a Mockingbird' said that there was more than one way to make a person a ghost, there is more than one way to oppress the poor (and there is more than one type of "poor").

And so my prayer is this ...

"O God, take me by the hand, teach me to truly see others, help me to be one to lift up, not oppress. Forgive me when I oppress others and insult you. Sigh, I said 'when', not 'if', didn't I? Even when I
consider my personal oppression, I still fail others in so many ways.  Every hour, I need your guidance and help for me to see the many shades of oppression and respond with your Son's compassion and love.   AMEN."

"Holy Subtleties"

A portion of my wonder in God’s creation comes in the holiness of subtlety. The early-morning light at 6:30am last Sunday wasn’t the same as this morning’s dawn … and this morning’s dawn-light won’t be the same as next Sunday’s. The seasonal changes, just as the ocean tides, are wondrous to me in such spot-on consistency, loving details and great faithfulness.

It is as if our LORD whispers a reminder in each subtle change … “I AM in each second of each minute of each hour in your days. I AM in it all.”

"The Secret Garden"

She called late on Saturday afternoon and said to Mom, “Come as you are. I want you and Anna to see my flowers before it is too late.” We had never been to her home. Ahhh, it was a secret garden filled with 15-year-old hibiscus with red blooms the size of saucers, black-eyed susans growing anywhere they could find a place to grow, trumpet angels, rose bushes and flowers that bloom only at night. There were flowers of all colors and names I shall never remember. There were bees on blooms and surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous about their presence. A hummingbird drew sweet water from a feeder. We sat in the garden and she told of the times when hummingbirds came near or lit on the arm of her chair or perched on her hand for a second or two. Secret gardens that grow freely are the best and such invitations are cherished.

And then, as we sat there and she spoke of not just the flowering plants but spoke of who had given them to her and why, she said, “I want two songs sung at my funeral.   One is 'In the Garden'.  The other is 'Where the Roses Never Fade' ”.

The true gift in the garden was the moment when she paused and sang “Where the Roses Never Fade”…

She called late on Saturday afternoon and said to Mom, “Come as you are. I want you and Anna to see my flowers before it is too late.” We had never been to her home. Ahhh, it was a secret garden filled with 15-year-old hibiscus with red blooms the size of saucers, black-eyed susans growing anywhere they could find a place to grow, trumpet angels, rose bushes and flowers that bloom only at night. There were flowers of all colors and names I shall never remember. There were bees on blooms and surprisingly, I wasn’t nervous about their presence. A hummingbird drew sweet water from a feeder. We sat in the garden and she told of the times when hummingbirds came near or lit on the arm of her chair or perched on her hand for a second or two. Secret gardens that grow freely are the best and such invitations are cherished.

And then, as we sat there and she spoke of not just the flowering plants but spoke of who had given them to her and why, she said, “I want two songs sung at my funeral.   One is 'In the Garden'.  The other is 'Where the Roses Never Fade' ”.

The true gift in the garden was the moment when she paused and sang “Where the Roses Never Fade”…

"Can i go with u ... ?"

I almost missed the penciled words. The offering envelope was a hymnal bookmark during last Sunday’s worship service. As I stood to sing the recessional hymn, I held the envelope in my hand … and as I sang, I glanced down and saw the words. They silenced me in my singing.  Someone had scribbled on the envelope, “Can i go with u cauz I’ll be left alone!?”

In some way, we are all psalmists, aren’t we? We whisper breath prayers … words of praise, of lamentation, of wonder, of waiting and of desiring to be in God’s presence. Was I holding the very words of a psalmist in my hand? “Oh God, my cries are but a hollow echo in the thoughts of your absence. Can i go with u cauz I’ll be left alone!? In this aloneness, my soul waits for you … in your assurance, I trust that I will never be apart from you.”

As I read the penciled message over and over again, I could almost hear these words whispered in a garden called Gethsemane. “They have all scattered and I am alone. Can I go with u cauz I’ll be left alone!? Abba, Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet not my will but yours be done.”

And as I held this offering envelope in my hands a little longer, now knowing that I would take the words home with me and keep them as a precious gift, I realized that it was on this very pew and in this spot where I gave my life to Christ. There was a deep aloneness in that moment … and then a holy assurance that I was no longer alone. In a way, these penciled words scrawled on an offering envelope and noticed by me on Sunday were my own words so very long ago. “Can I go with u cauz I’ll be left alone!?

It seems right that these words were written on an "offering" envelope. God's answer to this question is and will always be “YES, COME WITH ME!”

"Less-Than-Perfect'

As a child, I used to love to watch my grandmother prepare the vegetables from her garden for her Sunday meal.  She gathered in everything that was ready to be harvested, whether they be perfect or bruised.  All vegetables were washed, even the ones that I thought to be questionable.  If it had been me, I would have set some of the less-than-perfect harvest aside or tossed them back into the garden.  But it was not me, it was Grandmommy Lazenby and she knew better.  Each squash, each bean, each tomato had some value. With her paring knife, she would carve away bruises until all became elements of a delicious country feast.

In a way, I looked at these bruised vegetables much like I remembered team-choosing on an elementary school playground.  The less-than-perfect children waited in hope yet were reluctantly chosen last.  My little-girl attitude was to choose only the perfect vegetables and leave the others behind.  Grandmommy’s attitude was that of finding a delicious worth in all of them, bruised or not.

This morning, as I cut around a couple of bruises in the banana for my breakfast cereal, I smiled and gave thanks for those times of watching my grandmother’s hands and the worth that she found in all things and, more importantly, in all people.  You see, when I buy a few apples or bananas or squash, I will now pick up one that has a bruise on it.  It’s easy enough to find a delicious worth, as Grandmommy did, in less-than-perfect vegetables or fruit … just as it is easy enough to find a beautiful worth in someone who is bruised by life, who has been made to feel less-than-perfect and who is usually chosen last, for whatever reason.

Blessed are the bruised-by-life and the less-than-perfect … for the last shall be first!

"Making Ghosts of People"

I know that it is a bit nerdy to be so anxious to get my hands on "Go Set a Watchman" by Harper Lee, but I am. "To Kill a Mockingbird" offered so many life lessons for me and showed me how a man of integrity and wisdom, through Atticus, walks through his day. The book had not one wasted word, in my opinion.

One of my favorite passages in a book (EVER) is from "To Kill a Mockingbird". I will share it with you ....

"Nobody knew what form of intimidation Mr. Radley employed to keep Boo out of sight, but Jem figured that Mr. Radley kept him chained to the bed most of the time. Atticus said no, it wasn’t that sort of a thing, that there were other ways of making people into ghosts."

It's so easy to do, I'm afraid ... making people into ghosts. I hope that I never choose a form of intimidation, no matter how subtle or veiled, to keep a person out of sight. I pray that in each of my days, I do not, intentionally or unintentionally, find other ways of making people into ghosts. A smile goes a long way, a wave to someone along the sidewalks of my route says "I see you", a look into a person's eyes can be a 'ghostbuster' moment.

"Receive My Silent Prayers"

(A struggling response to the 9 murders at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, SC 6-17-15)

“Emmanuel”, God-With-Us … Yesterday, as we wept and prayed, as we began to grasp the depth of grief among your children in Charleston, you wept among us and with us. You received each of our prayers as if each one was a singular tearful conversation with you.

This morning, I will admit, I am having difficulty finding even a few words of prayer for the shooter. The words are elusive and garbled and where there are words, they are certainly not in complete sentences. To be honest, perhaps it is me who does not want to pray for him.

Do I think that my prayers for others will be watered down by a sentence or two whispered for this one who is so filled with hate? Just maybe the words are there, waiting in this silence.

Receive, O God, my silence and my gasps as a prayer this morning, yearning to free itself into your care. Place your words within my heart so that I might give them back to you.

AMEN.

"Ill-Fitting Armour"

How often have I been handed

another person's shield and sword

and armour and yes, callings

only to find that all were

too heavy and cumbersome

and ill-fitting.

Brought to my knees by the

weight of it all,

I can only stand to face the Goliaths

when I hand back those things

that others ask me to wear

and reach out for the stones

that are God-made

to fit perfectly in my hand ...

stones with my name on them,

stones made smooth

by the very waters of my baptism.

It is then and only then

when I can rise and stand

with courage and strength

that is my God's to give,

and turn in the direction

of God's choosing.

"The Thimble"

I had a lovely dream just before waking this morning. I was walking through gardens of lush greens and beautiful flowers when someone came to me and said, "I want to give you a gift. Let me go to my store and get it for you." I didn't recognize this person but for some reason, I had a handwritten inventory listing of the items that were in his store.

He came back to me and placed a silver thimble in my hand and said, "This is for you. I have wanted you to have it for a long time." He smiled, winked at me and left the gardens as quickly as he had appeared.

I looked at my unopened notebook with the value listings of each item in his store, wondering if I should take a peek at the value of this tiny gift. I hesitated, then finally gave in and opened the notebook. Item after item was listed, each one more valuable than the one before. I ran my finger down through the list, growing excited about how much this little thimble might be worth in dollar value. My eyes fell upon the words "silver thimble" and where its value should be there was nothing written. Nothing!

I sat down in the garden, staring at this little thimble, this tiny shield from those smallest injuries of life ... and suddenly I knew its value. PRICELESS.

No hurt is so small that God isn't aware .... that God isn't comforting .... that God doesn't love us through it.

"The Word for the Day is .... "

Last night, a friend sent a message to me, commenting that he hadn’t seen/read any of my Tuesday lunch grace-sightings lately.  As I ended my evening, I wondered why the grace-sightings had become fewer in recent weeks.  Perhaps there is a fog of the heart when the stuff of life is allowed to cloud over such sightings.  I pray that I continue to be willing to be enchanted by and receptive to God's presence … thus, the word for the day!

The word for the day is RECEPTIVE.

It has been said of C. S. Lewis that his most significant defining characteristic was his willingness to be “enchanted” – a profound openness to delight joined with the sense that there is more to the world than meets the eye.  C. S. Lewis wrote, “We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade, the presence of God.  The world is crowded with Him.  He walks everywhere incognito.  And the incognito is not always hard to penetrate.”  Lewis continued by describing our task this way:  “The real labor is to remember to attend.  In fact, to come awake.  Still more, to remain awake.”

So, the word for the day is RECEPTIVE … we see that modeled in the life of C. S. Lewis and that is what I hope for us all (with a good dose of "enchantment' thrown in).

"Heart-shaped and Personalized"

Grandmommy Lazenby wore a charm bracelet.  It was very simple, probably no more than 10K gold, and only had a few charms dangling from it.  The names and birth dates of her two children (Mom and my Uncle Bob) and of her grandchildren (Eric, Anna, Steve, Sheryl, Sandy and Susan) were engraved on them ... one for each of us.  Although Mom didn't care for the jingle of her mother's bracelet, all of us grandchildren remember it with a bit of fondness. When we would worshiped with Grandmommy at “her” church, we listened for that jingle and could find her with ease among those in the pews. When she hugged someone, she would throw her arms wide and the charm bracelet would "sing" with a jingly sort of joy.  We heard that joy when she would hug each of us.

When visiting with Grandmommy Lazenby in her home, I loved to sit on the sofa next to her, cuddling up against her. At times, I would gently touch her charms … mine, especially.  There is a bit of wear on each one.  To this day, I like to imagine that the wear is because Grandmommy held each of our charms as she thought about us and prayed for us individually.  Although I never saw her fingering the charms in prayer, over the years this has turned into a personal certainty for me.  I so strongly desired those thoughts, prayers and unconditional love from my grandmother that surely it was true.  No one can convince me otherwise.  Recently, Mom gave me the charm with my name engraved on it.  What will I do with it?  Do I put it away or wear it as a pendant on a necklace? I'm not much for monograms or things bearing my name, you know.

Early this morning, I was reading the lectionary scriptures and found myself with this charm in my hand as I read.  The gospel lectionary scriptures for this Sunday are John 3:1-17.  Just when I thought that there was no other direction one can take with these oh-so-familiar words, no other ponderings, no other ways of saying the same thing, I opened my hand and saw the heart-shaped charm with “Anna” engraved on its face.  “For God so loves you, Anna.”   Yes, John 3:16 is heart-shaped and personalized just like the charm I held in my hand.

"Unbearable Beauty of an Ordinary Life"

I read these words today …

“unbearable beauty of an ordinary life”.

Tears, unbeckoned, flowed 

as the morning’s songbird came to mind,

with the plainness of her plumage

yet a great faithfulness
in her presence
and in her proclamation
 of her Creator's

approaching dawn.

Glorious is her song,

day after day.

Joyful is the newness

found in her singing

each morning.

Her feathers are not

red or blue or yellow 

so she is considered 

ordinary;

she is not migratory

so she is most common

in the neighborhood ...

common even
 in her great faithfulness

and beautiful birdsong.
Often, she is not heard
yet still, she sings

Such is the

unbearable beauty

of an ordinary life.

A MORNING'S PRAYER

Gracious and Loving God, thank you for the gift of this day. I know that each day is a gift from you, wrapped up with love, opportunities and new possibilities. Help me to live in gratitude.

For the beauty of creation, I give you thanks. Help me to notice the flowers along my way today … beautiful, colourful, resilient and strong even on those days when the forecast is of the rains. I pray that I might be the same in your world.

For the joy of loving and being loved, I give you thanks. Give me a heart that welcomes this joy. For the steadfastness of good friends, I give you thanks. Help me to polish and cherish friendships so that they might shine in new ways.

For meaningful work to do, for words to share, for supportive and encouraging people in my life, I give you thanks. I pray that I don’t overlook the importance of any of these.

When challenges and hardships overwhelm me, when darkness desires to delay the morning’s light, give me glimpses of your grace. Remind me that your grace surrounds me, is within me, is reflective of who I am and is to be noticed and seen if I would just remember to look for it. Yes, for the certainty of your grace, I give you thanks.

I now watch the sun rise and I think of you, Loving God. You are the one who stirs all awake to the newness of this day. The flowers raise their faces to you. The rains fall and offer me hope for a clean slate in my day. The birds wake with a new song and I find that my heart joins with them and sings new songs of love and gratitude to you, O God.

Thank you for another day.

Amen.

"Do You Hear Him?"

Before she ran and told the others, she heard her name whispered in a garden ... in the unknowns. "MARY." She heard Jesus whisper her name.

It is Easter! Before the Alleluias and before the sunrise, listen ... shhh. Do you hear your name whispered?

In the midst of all that will be this morning, as we sing and worship and shout our Alleluias, listen ... shhh, listen for your own name to be whispered for Christ has risen indeed!  A single whispered name is our very witness and our call to run and tell others!

"Today, There Is No Voice' (Holy Saturday)

Yesterday,

we still heard 

his voice,

agonizing as it 

might have sounded.

“Father, forgive them…

Today, you will be with me…

Dear woman, your son…

My God, my God …

I am thirsty …

It is finished …

Father, into your hands…”

Still, we heard his voice.

Yesterday,

we wondered

why, oh why

is this day called

Good Friday.

In disguise,

GRACE poured out

from nail-pierced

hands and feet,

from a sword’s wound,

from thorns pressed 

into flesh.

Yet, still, we heard his voice.

Today, 

scattered as we are,

we wait

in deafening silence.

At best, we cry

“How long, O LORD,

will you hide yourself 

forever?”

HOPE is now 

carefully wrapped

in linens and

sealed in a tomb.

“How long, O LORD,

will you hide yourself 

forever?”

In stillness,

earth awaits

the resurrection.

Today, there is no voice.

Today, There is Silence (Good Friday)

As a child, I didn't have the luxury of checking weather.com or The Weather Channel for forecasts ... I had my mother to call attention to the weather on Good Fridays.  My earliest memories of this day leading up to Easter were of her telling us to notice the weather.  "There will be clouds on this day ... maybe even rain or a storm if only for a brief moment."  There was a heaviness in her forecasting as if she knew something that I didn't know.  She continued by saying,"It is God's reminder."  Mom left it at that.  She left me moving about through the rest of my Good Fridays with a heaviness on my heart that I couldn't explain away.    She left me to dwell in these Fridays without jumping into my Easters.

I believe that it was Barbara Brown Taylor who once said to preachers, "Stop two paragraphs shy of a good Presbyterian sermon."  That is what Mom did ... and that is what God does on this day when Jesus' last words from the cross were "Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit" and then falling into the silence of death. God stopped two paragraphs shy of what we so want to know.  Today is Good Friday and Jesus is crucified.

THE END ... or is it?

"Do This In Remembrance ..." (Holy Thursday)

(As we think of this night, Holy/Maundy Thursday, so long ago, we realize that Jesus not only washed the feet of the one who would betray him, but he prepared a place at the table for him as well. It is the same today. He still prepares the table ... for all)

You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies.

It was when you asked me to help,

O God, that I truly understood ...

or at least understood

in the way that you asked me

to understand.

You handed a chalice to me

from the table you prepared

and whispered, "For all."

I gulped. "Oh God... really?

For all?"

You whispered again,

"Look into their eyes,

offer to them what I have prepared,

Some might be your enemies,

but none are mine."

And so I stood,

at the end of an aisle,

with chalice in hand

and wept at the thoughts

of my enemies welcomed

to the table

that was prepared for me

in such a generous way.

The table was not mine;

the guest list was not mine;

the chalice never ran dry ...

nor did the grace and mercy.

Once again, I heard,

"Do this in remembrance ...

and remember,

these are not my enemies."

You prepare a table before me

in the presence of my enemies,

and then you say, "All sit ... together."

And still the chalice never runs dry

for those around the table -

not even for me.

"Questions of the Day" (Wednesday of Holy Week)

The palm branches are no more

and the garments have been gathered -

the dust of a Jerusalem road

no doubt still on them.

The question of the day

brings about more thought

than answers ...

"Who do you say that I am?"

The question is clear ....

the disciples have seen

and heard

and walked with this man

and yet one among them

wants a messiah

of his own desires,

not the Messiah

who entered into lives

with teachings of justice

and healings of spirit and body ...

not the One who resolutely

walked toward Jerusalem

with dust-covered sandals

and approached the city

riding on a lumbering donkey.

"How many coins? Thirty?"

There are plans and preparations today ...

A room is being prepared.

Coins are being counted.

Crosses are visible 

only on the horizon

of thoughts.

"What is happening on this day?

What should we make of it all?”

"Let There Be Nothing Left Behind"

Beside of my laptop lies a stack of worship bulletins from Palm Sunday ... found abandoned on pews and rescued from the recycling bin. It seemed much like the day of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem, doesn't it? Palm branches torn from the trees and waved at this man who is riding through the streets of Jerusalem on a gentle donkey. Hosannas being shouted. And yet, the hosannas stopped and the palm branches were left behind, dropped along the roadside.

As I look at the stack of bulletins and glance at my own palm branches, I realize that we have a choice to do the same. Some of us choose to shout our hosannas for only a moment and drop our palm branches when the hour of worship is over.  Some of us continue to journey with our Lord during these days. Yes, some leave the branches and scriptures and desire to be present with our Lord behind ... tossed on the floor ... left in the sanctuary ... out of their thoughts as they walk away until Easter morning while others make a cross from both their palms and their prayers to carry with them during this most holy of weeks.

" O God, let there be nothing left behind or tossed away by me in these coming days."

"Waving the Palms"

I have wonderful memories of the Palm Sundays of my childhood.  Small children dressed in white robes with huge black bows, waving palm branches that seemed much bigger than we were tall.  It was a grand sight.  We proudly led the choir down the aisles of the sanctuary.  After it was all over, my palm branch always found itself in a place of honor in our home… on our old upright piano that was once my Granddaddy Murdock’s piano.  And, I insisted that my mother keep it watered for I wanted it to remain green for as long as possible.  Did we know why we were waving the palm branches then?  I'm not sure that we did.  We were caught up in the excitement of the day.  And to be honest, do we as adults know why wave the palms?  Do we just consider Palm Sunday the beginning of Holy Week without looking closely at the kind of messiah the crowds of Jerusalem were expecting to see… or the type of messiah that we expect or desire ourselves?

Perhaps as we begin our journey with Palm Sunday and into Holy Week, we should question ourselves as to who this Jesus is who has come riding into our lives?  Have we molded him into what we expect him to be and then become confused or dismayed as he doesn't fit our ways or agendas?   Have our traditions become so anticipated that we don't take the time to look beyond the palms and into the heart of Jesus?

 Holy Week is a challenge for us all, as Easter people, to rediscover the emotions, the teachings, the intimacy of the last meal with Jesus and the disciples, the betrayals and denials, the suffering and the darkness of grief.  This is the final leg of our journey before the tremendous joy of Easter and the brilliance of its promise.  We should take every opportunity to follow Jesus’ same path into Jerusalem beginning with the quest to find out why we wave the palms.

May you experience Palm Sunday with fresh eyes!

"Just Days Before ..."

We aren't quite there yet, are we?   The palms and hosannas as we remember Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem and the passion of Holy Week will soon be upon us, but we aren't quite there.  For now, we are just days away from Palm Sunday.  May God give you strength to journey through these last days of Lent and an open heart to experience all that Holy Week will bring your way.  Let us join together and pray for our pastors, worship teams and leaders, and all in music ministry who clear a path to Jerusalem for each of us even if their own palm branches are a little bent or broken by now.    anna

Along the way,
sitting in the dirt
by the side
of a well-travelled road,
a blind man shouts,
“I want to see”
and there is healing …
yes, there is sight.

THIS IS THE DAY
THAT THE LORD HAS MADE

In the fields
on the outskirts
of Jerusalem,
a weary one sighs
and whispers,
“You are my God.”
Bending down,
he picks up a palm branch…
broken and bent,
much like his spirit.
For that reason alone,
he holds onto it,
dragging the branch along
as he walks,
making what looks like
to anyone else
a path
in the dirt
outside of Jerusalem.

THIS IS THE DAY
THAT THE LORD HAS MADE

There is a growing crowd,
whispering,
murmuring,
shouting,
hopeful,
angry,
confused ....
waiting and watching
for a messiah.

THIS IS THE DAY
THAT THE LORD HAS MADE

Among those
in the crowd,
is the one with the
bent branch
and the broken spirit.
Yes, caught up in the crowds,
I can be found ...
and you as well,
tightly holding onto
our own palm branch.

We wait …
for some unknown reason
we wait.

The path
into Jerusalem
remains,
drawn in the dirt
by a palm branch.

Why are we waiting?

Shhh…
THIS IS THE DAY
THAT THE LORD HAS MADE

"Dancing and Waving and Working"

He is always danc’n 

on the street corner …

danc’n as a drum major

in a high stepping band

would dance …

danc’n in the 

rain or snow

or heat of the day…

holding a sign that reads,

“We Buy Gold”.

Another sign-bearer

a mile or two away

is dressed like “Lady Liberty”

(although this bearded one 

is definitely no lady).

I have seen him, 

holding a sign that

begs people 

to prepare their Caesar’s portion

through their tax service.

He waves at passersby

(danc’n isn’t much of an option

in a flowing gown).

He, too, finds himself

in the rain or snow

or heat of the day …

holding a sign that reads,

“Taxes Done While You Wait”.

“Lady Liberty” often finds 

that he has a fellow sign-bearer

as a companion … 

one who dances and waves

as cars pass by.

Yes, this woman holds her sign high

in the rain or snow

or heat of the day.

The placard reads

“Hot-N- Ready Pizza Here”.

I never think

“There but for the grace of God, go I.”  

My thoughts are more akin to, 

“There I am, with countless others.”

There is a faithfulness in their jobs

and need for that income

that places them 

on the very curb of life,

waving and dancing and working

in the rain or snow

or heat of the day.

I will always 

tap my car horn

and wave …

or look their way

and smile.

An acknowledgement 

goes a long way in the hearts

of a person who is

“dancing” for wages.

Many do that, you know …

do their jobs well,

with a faithfulness

and a smile -

holding a sign high

that reads,

“You Have Bought Gold in Me.” 

(and in fine print …“my job has been done well today”).

We are all sign-bearers 

standing on the very curb of life -

dancing and waving and working …

hoping for a smile,

or the beep of a horn,

or an acknowledgement 

or a

 “Thank You.  You Shine Like Gold!”

"It Was Good While It Lasted"

In nighttime hours,

the snow came upon us,

beautiful to be sure …

in its falling

and in its silence.

Pure and lovely

and clean …

covering all ground

within my sight.

Today, the snow

has been pushed away.

Dirty … oh how dirty…

no longer pure and lovely

and clean …

no longer covering

all ground in ways

that bring pause

to my busyness

and a “sigh” at its

wondrous beauty.

At a gas station

there was a mini-bottle

tossed aside

and a scratched-off

$1.00 lottery ticket

beside of the bottle,

both lying in filthy snow.

Searched-for hope

both in a bottle

and in chance.

Life can indeed

be buried in dirty snow.

My keys dropped

into a filthy puddle

of melted snow.

The car horn

began to blare

as I dried off my

car remote.

The beautiful silence

had been broken.

Life can also

become quite noisy.

.

So much for that

brief moment in my world

when the snow came upon us,

beautiful to be sure …

in its falling

and in its silence.

Pure and lovely

and clean …

covering all ground

within my sight.

It was nice while it lasted.

Now back to life

in all of
its brokenness

and in all of

 its beauty.

"When Dreams Become Reality"

As I brushed the powdery snow

from my car this morning,

I remembered other winters

when I chipped away

at thick ice

with my kitchen spatula

or, with great effort,

pushed snow away

with a cookie sheet.

I remembered each step

when I ever-so-carefully

made my way

down the untreated walk,

only to fall

face-down in the snow

This morning, I found myself dreaming

of a garage or carport.

SHELTER …

that’s all I ask.

It’s a small enough dream,

isn’t it?

Sitting at my desk at work,

in a chair that

swivels and rolls,

in an office with no windows,

and in a cubbyhole

that isn’t inviting,

I found myself

dreaming once again …

dreaming of a big wooden porch.

My daydreams were of

porch rockers that didn’t

swivel or roll

but slowly rocked

back and forth

with a rhythmic creak.

Rocking in a porch rocker,

drinking iced tea

and being in the presence

of a dear and trusted friend …

A PORCH …

that’s all I ask.

it’s a small enough dream,

isn’t it?

The reality of it all

is that neither carport

nor wooden porch

is in my near future.

But dreams become hopes

and hopes become prayers

and prayers are heard always

and in special ways.

They take on different

shapes and hues …

even the shapes of

the shelter of carports

and the hue of a porch

where I can be silent

and exhale.

Prayers become the iced tea

that quenches a thirst

that is hard to describe

and the place and presence

where I am called

both “friend” and “beloved”.

Oh God, give me SHELTER

in your great Love and  Presence.

Shelter me from things

that might

freeze my heart

or cause me to fall

face-down in this world.
Equip me with words
that I might share
and compassion
that I might offer.

Lift me up and brush me off

when I feel an aloneness,

and whisper once more,

“I am with you always”

and “beloved child.”

Receive my “welcome”

on this PORCH

of my dreams and hopes

and questions.

Be silent with me,

or in conversation with me,

Holy One.

Teach me to listen.

Help me to rock

on this porch of life,

as creaky as it is,

so that I might be in

rhythm with your will.

SHELTER and a PORCH …

my dreams have come true

in that place where

dreams become hopes

and hopes become prayers

and prayers become reality.

AMEN.

"Be Still, and Know That I Am God"

(a morning's surprise of a  Lenten devotion)

With all of the Lenten devotionals and suggestions of scriptures to read during the days of Lent, early this morning, while still curled up under a blanket, I reached for my Kindle and turned to Chapter 5 (called “Dulce Domum”) in “The Wind in the Willows” by Kenneth Grahame.  A paragraph about a moment in the day of MOLE’s little life found a place within me and brought to mind “Be still, and know that I am God.”  Restless in going to bed last night and even more restless in waking this morning, I listened carefully to the words in “The Wind in the Willows” …  here is what I read:

"It was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current that had so strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood. Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home ... "

(back to me) … Who would have ever thought that Mole in “The Wind in the Willows” might become a part of my Lenten devotionals this morning.  Who would have thought that these descriptive words might help me remember that being sensitive to the scent of God and that sitting on a log and being still (which is what Mole eventually ended up doing, even as his tears flowed) might be a portion of "knowing". 

What remarkable words found  in this chapter, Dulce Domum.  Searching, sensing, catching it again, being moved by a Current, hands pulling and tugging, ALL ONE WAY.  

This morning, “Be still, and know that I am God” flowed from the pages of this very special book.  I give thanks to the One who whispered, “turn on your Kindle!”