"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!” 

"Ash Wednesday"

Today is “Ash Wednesday”, and we will once again hear the call to repentance and reflection as the Lenten season begins.  It is a day like no other for it asks us to find a place of “aloneness” even though there are fellow worshipers surrounding us.  We place our broken and contrite hearts before God, hoping in a way that no one else will witness this.  We confess our sins in intentional and specific ways, from deep within, perhaps praying as well that no one will sense these things pouring from our hearts.  We admit that there is absolutely nothing that we can do on our own to “create” a pure heart or to “renew” a steadfast spirit within us.  Only the Creator can create and only the One who holds mercy in the palms of holy hands can renew a right spirit within us.  And so we bow down. We open up our broken and contrite heart and place it before God.  We speak those words of repentance that God asks of us (yet knew all along).  We humbly (and joyfully) receive a newly-created heart and renewed right spirit.   We become fit for the journey to Jerusalem with Jesus as we pray in earnest for a new sense of faithfulness and obedience and for the Holy Spirit to be ever-present in our lives.  We must become fit and recreated and renewed for we will next hear words of “follow me” and “take up my cross daily.”

In our worship services on this Ash Wednesday, we will be plunged into this “aloneness” and then asked to stand with others and come forward to receive the ashes.  We will feel the sensation of a cross being drawn on our forehead (and secretly pray that we will never lose that feeling).  And we will walk away in silence, wearing the symbol of the cross for all to see.

Dusty, dirty, and sooty….broken and contrite…our hearts were just that. Mercies showered upon each of us.  Forgiveness given.  Hearts being renewed and recreated.  God is preparing us to resolutely set our sights on Jerusalem with Jesus ... preparing us to stand firm and be ready to say “yes, I will follow you.”

"On This Day Before Ash Wednesday"

Neglected,

it rests on the corner,

visible to all,

yet ignored by most …

it has been empty

far too long.

This morning,

this day before 

Ash Wednesday,

the front of the building

has been painted 

a brilliant white

and the windows

on each side 

of the entrance door

are now adorned 

with new, royal blue awnings.

Yet the “For Sale” sign

is still posted,

weather-worn

from the years 

of begging 

and pleading

for someone to look…

just look and consider

the property’s value.

If one dares 

to look closer,

beyond the brilliant white paint

and the royal blue awnings,

the other sides 

of the building can be seen.

Three other sides …

a dingy beige

with peeling paint 

and windows broken

by those who think nothing

of doing damage 

to something that is not theirs.

The flat roof

can no longer withstand

the weight of

years of debris

or torrential rains

that only accumulate 

and puddle 

in its flatness.

The property is

overgrown with weeds

and littered by those things

that others have so carelessly

and thoughtlessly

thrown its way.

What are we to think

of an appealing façade

of fresh paint 

and new awnings?

What are we to think 

of neglect 

and damage … 

of brokenness 

and litter …

of weeds 

and debris

and puddles?

Perhaps this is exactly

what we will bring with us

tomorrow … 

on this day we call

Ash Wednesday.

We bring with us

freshly painted facades 

and new awnings,

hoping beyond hope 

that those around us

will not see the 

neglect and damage,

the brokenness and litter,

the weeds and shattered hearts.

The black soot 

marks our façade

with a cross …

and the ash 

falls onto our awnings.

The difficult admission 

that there are

other sides to be seen

are whispered in prayer

and are heard by the One 

who has clearly seen 

all four sides

of each of us.

This is our tomorrow.

Holy God,

we come to you 

in need of repair …

not in part,

but throughout 

our whole being.

Create in us

a newness in our days,

a wholeness and healing through you,

a purpose in your kingdom,

hope in your love

and a pure heart before you.

Amen.

"Sunday, I Realized"

Sunday, I realized that

the old hymns are more important

than some think.

I understood this

by looking at others as they sang

and by opening my own ears 

and heart and memories

as I joined them in the

recessional hymn.

I looked to my left and saw

a little girl across the aisle,

head bobbing and eyes twinkling

as she looked adoringly at her mother

and sang without 

the need of a hymnal,

“Oh victory in Jesus, 

my Saviour forever …”

She had heard the hymn before;

she had sung the refrain at other times,

perhaps in other churches,

no doubt with family.

Her face had

"My Saviour forever"

written all over it.

As the old hymn was sung

by the congregation,

I found myself opening my ears

and listening to my mother,

standing beside of me …

singing beside of me.

Her voice isn’t perfect

(well, neither is mine) 

but she brought sweet music 

to my ears. 

In a way, it was celebratory 

for she had been absence

from church for four weeks

with a winter’s illness

and now she was back!

I continued to sing

along with my mother beside of me,

the little girl across the aisle,

and the congregation that surrounded me.

I then "heard" 

my grandmother’s voice, 

sliding up and down the notes

as she so often did

with the old hymns.

As a child, I would giggle

when I would hear her sing,

running the familiar notes together.

It was a gift on Sunday

for me to hear her voice 

once again in my memories.

I miss her.

I will now admit

to sliding up and down 

a few notes during the singing

of the hymn,

in memory of her.

Sunday, when I sang, 

“I heard an old, old story

how a Saviour came from glory,

how he gave his life on Calvary,

to save someone like me”

I realized that it was because

of my mother and grandmother

and a childhood of the

teaching, preaching, singing and worship 

in this church,  

as well as the old hymns

sung by countless people

who have surrounded me

over the years

that I have heard the

“old, old story.”

Sunday, as I sang 

the final refrain

I was brought to tears

by the words,

“He loved me ere I knew him”

for I know, without a doubt,

that this is a truth 

in my life.

When I want assurance the most,

when I struggle to find

prayerful words or scriptures 

at the moment

when I so desperately need them,

old hymns find their way

into the urgency

of my searching

and I sing

“It is well with my soul.”

"A Blustery Winter's Day in the South"

On a winter’s day

in the place where

 I find myself living,

it is a rare day

when there is snow or ice …

but there can be, however,

a wind that drives the cold

through sweaters and

layers of clothing.

While most put on coats

and wrap scarves around

necks and mouths

and ears and noses…

while they tugged at their gloves

and plop hats on their heads

and dive into the blustery day

with heads down and eyes

looking only at the cement

and grumbling at the

wickedness of the wind,

I walk outside with

my head up, no coat,

car in sight,

and maybe an allowance

of a whispered “brrrrr”.

You see, I don’t want to

miss anything that a

blustery winter’s day

in the South

might offer to me.

With earmuffs on,

I would have missed

the soft, fluttering sounds

that curly bark on a tree

make in the wind.

With head down,

I would never have seen

an acorn

dance joyfully

across the walk …

bouncing this way

and that way.

If too concerned with

my hair or the “brrrrr”

of the moment,

I would not have

raised my head to see

the hawk soaring

in strong winds …

soaring in a way

that was much different

from his day before.

I would have missed it all

if my ears were covered

and my head was down

and my heart was

wrapped too tightly

to want to hear and see

what a blustery winter’s day

might gift to me.

In a windy winter’s day

I don’t want to miss

the rustling and dancing

and soaring of creation.

There is coffee waiting

and I will be warm soon enough!