Category Archives: soul stories

meditations that take a narrative journey

a Narnia encounter (3)

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along the beach[This is a continuing meditation. Part 1 is here; part 2 is here.]

I wait … and fidget … and wait some more.

Too often my mind rushes ahead of my day and I leave the real moments of my life behind. I have not learned to stay put; to live life as it comes, rather than waiting to live until my plans develop. (Which, of course, they never quite do.)

I think of the giant who brought me here as a simple soul, but he is wiser than I have realized. He seems content … or rather, he seems quite pleased … to do his part and trust that the rest will unfold as it should. That is not so easy for me.

And what is my part in this adventure? All I’ve done to this point is to ride in his pocket and sleep beside the fire. Oh, and keep the fire going in spite of fear. That, too. But what will I be asked to do from here? That is the part of the fear I have not quite vanquished.

So, I wait and I fidget.

I get up to walk along the beach, along the smooth wet edge close to the water. I watch the faint bubbles that form as my feet press the water out of the sand with each step. I breathe in deeply and smell the salt air. The smell of the salt tells me that this must be an inlet from the sea.

As I walk, I come upon a large flat rock that juts out into the water – a finger of rock that reaches out from a large rocky cliff that towers up above. I crawl out on the rocky ledge and let my feet dangle. The slap of the waves reaches to my feet with every undulation. There is a rhythm there that soothes me. I am caught and released with each pull of the waves, as if the sea, itself, might be having a wordless conversation with my soul.

Perhaps, if I can just release my urgency, I can learn to live in simple trust, like my giant friend.

My toes catch a strand of seaweed.

Suddenly the weed climbs up my leg and tugs me into the water. I try to hold on to the rock, but this all happens too fast and I am pulled down, down, into the cold. After my initial panic I notice that there is an opening under the rock I had been sitting on – an entrance to a cave that, surprisingly, is lit within. I reach down and loosen the seaweed from my leg and move forward into the cave. It isn’t long until I come out into an inner cavern, with its own beach, its own hidden cove.

I sit for just a moment on a twin rock on that shore. I look around and listen for any clues about what will happen next.

And then, beside me on the rock, there is a presence. It is a presence that I know. Not so clear, perhaps, as the voices on the wind … but very definitely there. I take in a breath, slowly, and let it out, letting my soul settle a bit into this presence.

“Hello,” I venture.

“Hello,” is the whispered reply.

“Is this the meeting I was called to?”

“It is one such meeting. There are many.”

“Ah.” I wait a bit. “It takes a lot to get my attention, doesn’t it?”

The presence smiles, though I don’t know how I know this. I have no real vision of this One. But there is a smile, and a reply, “It does take a bit, sometimes. That is the way of things. It is so easy to get lost in the rush of activity.”

“There is so much to do,” I try to explain. “There are so many people who depend upon me.”

“Ah,” again the smile. The very silence helps me see the silliness of this response.

“I don’t know quite how to do this.” I try again.

“Ah,” another silence and then the presence reaches out to my hand, which is resting upon the rock, wrapping me in a warmth that travels up my arm into my heart. “Knowing is not always necessary.”

I try to be content with this answer. I try to remember the peaceful acceptance of the giant. I try, but to no avail. I don’t know what to do with the quiet. It always seems that my mind wanders off somewhere on its own, or chatters on with anxious energy. I keep trying to pull it back to where we are.

The presence begins to sing, slowly, softly. It is as if I only hear it with my soul. Yet, its rhythms begin to smooth the wrinkles in my heart, the furrows on my brow. I lean back upon the rock and let the song sweep over me. Each measure is a pulse of steady comfort.

When I wake, later, I can tell I have been here quite a while. The presence has gone … or at least is not so palpable. I feel deeply rested – a feeling that I have not felt for a long, long time. It is as if I have put down a burden that I did not know I was carrying. I sigh. I smile. I roll over and slip back into the water and find way back to the beach of the giant’s island. I sit in the sun, feet in the sand of that beach, at peace.

Now, at last, I may be ready for the meeting the giant heard about on the wind. Ironically, I am ready, but no longer anxious, no longer feeling restless.

Because I am ready, I can wait.

[This soul story continues, here.]
[image by Susan Murtaugh per cc 2.0]

a Narnia encounter (2)

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peaceful giant[a continued meditation … part 1 is here.]

Suddenly I wake. I have dropped off to sleep beside the giant. He is breathing softly, at least softly for him. I find that in my sleep I have moved toward him, edging toward the warmth of his bulk, though I am a bit fearful that he might roll over on me.

I look toward his face and see that he is awake. Lying on his side, with his head propped up on one hand, he waits for me to open my eyes. He sees me look at him and smiles. “So you wake up, do you? You are ready to start our day?”

I smile back and scramble to my feet. I walk over and stoke the fire, still burning, quietly, slowly. Just barely more than glowing coals, the tiniest of flames dance in the inner chambers of the fire formed in the spaces between the logs. With very little work the fire is strong and warm. I pull up a waiting log for a seat and warm my hands and stretch the soreness out of my body. Some logs were added since last night. I wonder about that briefly, but the giant’s movements catch my attention.

The giant reaches toward the oilskin bag in which he carries his provisions. He pulls a piece of manna from the bag. It is wrapped in a cloth, which he unfolds onto a stone beside him. He breaks a corner from his large loaf and hands it to me. This act, this simple gift, seems very like communion. He shares with me this gift. We break bread, together.

He has a water-skin, too. But he is not sure just how to give me something to drink. I have no cup and this water-skin is far too big for me to lift. Finally, I cup my hands and he pours some water into them. I drink and then rinse my hands with what remains.

“Shall we go?” I ask the giant.

“Go? Why go? We are here, we are.” he replies. “Where do you want to go?”

“Yesterday you said something about taking me to a meeting….” I begin.

“That’s right, a meeting. That meeting is here. Here is where we hold the meeting.”

“Oh.” I’m really a little disappointed that we won’t be moving on. I am filled with a dancing energy from the bread and water, from the fading memory of the night’s adventure. (Was that a dream or was it real?) I pace around the clearing. I reach into my pocket and touch my lighter. “What is this meeting? Who will be coming?”

“I don’t know,” the giant replies. “They sent me to get you and bring you here. They said there was to be a meeting. They sent many to look for you, but I found you, I did, and I brought you here.”

“Who are they?” I ask. “Who sent you for me?”

“The voices on the wind,” he says.

I stop, struck cold. The voices on the wind? I rode in the pocket of this giant far from where I was, because he heard voices on the wind? I’m not so sure about this. But then I remember Aslan. He was here last night, wasn’t he? Sometimes it seems like morning makes things less clear.

I turn to the giant. “How often have you heard these voices?”

“Two times before I have heard them, I have. This time makes three.” He holds up three fingers and seems to be quite proud of himself.

“And who is coming to the meeting?” I ask.

“They didn’t say,” he shrugs his shoulders, “They just said to find you and bring you here.”

I’m a little frustrated by his satisfaction with these incomplete answers. “When is the meeting to begin?”

“Tonight I think…. or tomorrow. They will know when to begin.” He looks at me, curious that I should be so insistent on all these details.

“So what do we do till then?” I ask. I can tell my voice has a bit of an edge.

“We wait.”

We have reached an impasse. The only one who can give me any hints about this meeting is quite content to let it happen on its own. He rises and strides off toward the stream to wash his hands.

I am left to wait, questions unanswered, trying to hold my impatience at bay. I don’t much like waiting. But sometimes that is what is required: to wait.

The difference between me and the giant, here, is that the giant seems, somehow, to trust the unfolding of experience. It’s not so much that he trusts the plan. Indeed, he seems unaware of any plan – or even of any need for one. Instead, he trusts … what? The voices? Perhaps it is that he trusts the one who calls.

I manage a wry smile. Can I trust a call, rather than a plan? I think I’ll plan to do just that …

[this soul story continues, here]

[image cropped and adjusted from photo by Ron Frazier per cc 2.0]

An English Garden

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peaceful garden
I am in a garden, an English style garden with hedges dividing plots of flowers and woven through with stone pathways. Benches are scattered throughout. I am sitting on one of those benches, smooth oak ribs on an iron frame. The air is cool. There is a pervasive quiet to this place. It is interesting to feel peace within this sculpted nature. I am more accustomed to seeking peace within the wildness of a forest.

I sit and drink in the measured, purposeful consolation of this place. It is for this that it was designed. It is for this that loving hands have tended beds and trimmed the hedges. This is a place of intentional rest.

On old woman comes down one of the stone paths toward me. She has a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and she walks with a cane, but her steps are confident. “Hello, my child,” she greets me. She seems very familiar, but I am not sure who she is.

“Good morning, grandmother.” I use the term as a title and not as a name.

“First time in this garden?”

“Yes ma’am, it is beautiful. Do you know whose it is?”

“It is ours: yours, mine, anyone’s who will come.”

“A public garden then.”

“No, a private one. One where privacy is carefully cultivated and given space.”

“Of course.”

She joins me on the bench and we sit together for a long time, not speaking, but not at all awkward in the silence.

“Such gardens require time,” she says at last. “They must be cultivated slowly and with discipline. That’s why the very young don’t come here often. The children can find their peace in wilder places, and are not hindered by the climb to the high mountain or the scramble through underbrush. I need the stone pathways to help me.”

I glance at her cane and wonder at the limits of the loss of movement.

“Don’t feel sorry for me, my dear,” she says, following my eyes. “I am not limited by my years, but freed. The journeys I have taken still inhabit my heart. But sometimes the thirst to continually see more can distract you from taking the time to understand what has been already seen. I have time for understanding now, in ways I never had before.”

“Why am I here?” I ask.

“It is not given to me to know the lot of others,” she replies. “But I began to come here when I was younger, before I felt the limits and liberation of my cane. It was a familiar spot to me, one of great comfort and joy even before the wilds became too hard for me to find. Perhaps it is the same for you.”

She continues, “Growing older in a world which values not the wisdom of silence can make the changes seem as if they were losses. You see the gray hairs and feel the frailty in your step and start to mourn. Yet, it is only loss if you refuse to move forward. There are new tasks for each age. Learn to pick up the next, and your hands will not be empty from the loss of the previous ones. I am closer to eternity than you. I feel its breath more clearly…not as a specter of evil, but a curtain of hope, which will rise on a beautiful and wondrous new place. Do not deny the passage of time, do not delay maturity. But welcome it as you welcomed childhood from infancy and young adulthood from adolescence.”

“Well, I must admit, I have never been very eager to grow. At least as long as I can remember, I have resisted the responsibilities of each new stage…. preferring the comfort and assurance of where I was. I was never quite sure I could meet the challenge of growing up.”

“You never meet the challenges until you are there, my dear. They are part of the process of change, they don’t precede it. It is as natural as physical growth, if you will let go of what has been.”

“I haven’t done all I need to do where I am.”

“Perhaps not, and I don’t believe your presence here means that it is time for you to leave your current stage. But I know that the tasks assigned to you in each stage of your life may be different than the ones you take up on your own. You may not always be able to judge when you are ready to move on. If you can trust, though, and know that the one who moves you also knows your path, your tasks, and your time. You have no need to fear or mourn. Enjoy the garden. You will no doubt come again. Do not fear the loss of the wild. It is not lost to you, but given greater depth as you move on. He will take your hand when it is time and lead you on.”

“Thank you, grandmother.” I reach out and touch her hand. It is small and covered with light brown age spots. Her skin is frail and thin, but when I touch it I am warmed and comforted. She places her other hand on top of mine and I realize that this is my grandmother Byrd, my true grandmother as well as my spiritual one. She smiles at me with love and with very knowing eyes.

“You make us proud, your grandfather and I. We are glad to see your journey and will wait to welcome you when it is done. We wait with the host of those who love you.” She rises to go and at the turn in the path, she is met by my grandfather,  Lawrence Lee. They lean toward each other, wrapped in common love and experience. He smiles at me, too, and they are gone.

3 5 95

[photo by Bill Barber per cc 2.0]

a Narnian encounter

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tangled forestI am deep within the woods and I don’t see a clearing anywhere, just tangles of trees and vines and brush. There is a thick carpet of decaying leaves beneath my feet, so no path is evident in this wild and untamed place. There are sounds I cannot identify. There is a sense of mystery and anticipation in the air. The skin at the back of my neck begins to tingle and my fingers tighten, ready to respond to whatever may happen. Suddenly a giant’s boot comes crashing down through the trees. Brown suede, huge, it hits the ground a few yards from where I stand and shakes the whole area.

I am trembling all over, but not so much from fear as from astonished awe. The giant seats himself upon a small hillock that rises in the forest, and reaches down and scoops me up in his hand. He brings me close to his face and cups both of his hands so that I have a secure place to stand, holding on to his thumbs.

I am not scared of this mighty one. He is, like some of the giants in Narnia, a kind and gentle soul. He says, “We have been looking for you, we have. They sent me, they did, to look in the forest and, here, I have found you.” He smiles, pleased with himself, pleased that I have been found and that he was the one to do it.

“Come, I’ll take you to the meeting.” He stands and puts me in the pocket of his tunic. I can stand in the pocket and just look out over the edge, grasping the edges with my hands for stability as he strides along. It is an exhilarating ride. He strides off across the forest, across an even larger plain and forward toward the edge of the sea.

When he reaches the beach, he sits and takes off his boots and slings them over his shoulder. Then he steps into the sea toward an island, just off shore. He gets chest deep in the water, my feet get wet at the bottom of the pocket, before he begins to climb out onto the beach of the island.

The beach extends out in a long low expanse of sand before it is met by the forest. Once his boots are back on, he walks along the beach to where a small river flows from the center of the island out into the sea. There he turns toward the forest, and using the river as a guide, he makes his way inland. He has covered an enormous distance, and it has taken he better part of the day. When we finally make it to the source of the stream, it is dark. There is just enough daylight left for me to gather some sticks to make a fire. He watches me closely, and is taken aback when I reach in my pocket and produce a small lighter and start the fire. “For a small one, you have some power, too, I see,” he says.

He finds a stone for a pillow and curls up and is soon asleep. I lie down by the fire, wrapped in the handkerchief he loaned me, and look up at the stars overhead. Narnian stars. Definitely Narnian stars. I certainly don’t know their constellations – I don’t even know my own, except Orion and the dippers – but I know they are Narnian. There, above me blinks the starry form of Aslan, a new constellation in the Narnian sky, formed when the windows in the woods opened between two worlds more than a century before in Narnian time… I know this, though I do not know how I know it. His eye is the polar star, always in the sky, whatever season, looking down upon Narnia and greeting the sunrise each day.

It feels like an adventure dawning. It feels like hope rising in my heart. It feels like I am on my way to my true home, having been long away. A solemn, joyful and intensely exciting peace rolls over me and carries me away in sleep.

I am wakened in the night by a rumbling beside me. The giant has rolled onto his back and is snoring. I consider my options. I can’t shake the bed…he’s shaking the ground already. I could try to shake him, but if he slaps at me while he’s asleep, I might not duck in time. I could yell into his ear… but do you want to wake a sleeping giant? So, I get up, wrap the handkerchief around my shoulders and stoke the fire.

The moon has risen in the sky, so that there is really quite a bit of light in this clearing where we made our stop. Most of the wood on the fire has been consumed. I rise and go to the edge of the forest to scavenge some more sticks. This all seems so dreamlike to me… I feel no threat at all… after all, a story can’t really hurt you, can it?

Then as I near the edge of the woods, I see a movement behind the trees. Two eyes glint and then are gone. A twig snaps somewhere nearby, but I cannot find quite where. I am caught – halfway between the fire and the woods, in a dilemma. If I return to the fire without any more wood, it will soon go out. But, in order to gather sticks I must go at least a little way into the woods, and I am sure that something is in there. I search the edge of the trees for loose branches and see a small pile off to my right.

I take a step toward the pile, and out of the woods, just from underneath a low hanging grey wolfpine branch steps a wolf. He is silver gray, with dark markings on his powerful shoulders and down his back. His eyes are locked on mine. “The giant sleeps.” he says with a malicious glint in his eye. “Giants don’t wake very easily, and I don’t make much noise in my work.” His eyes cut a hole straight into my soul and I begin to tremble. I take one step back and the wolf shifts his weight.

“What is your work?” I ask him, already knowing what his answer will be.

“My work is to devour you, your hopes, your dreams, your very self. It is a meal that I will savor.” His voice is a low growl, not forceful, but unmistakably full of power.

“I have work of my own.” I am surprised to hear myself speak. The wolf, too, looks a bit surprised.

“You’ll wish that you had done it earlier,” he says, recovering his malicious presence.

“My timing may be off, but the Lord’s is not, and he has brought me here, just now, to do his task.” Some spirit within me is speaking these words, yet they are also mine.

“I have stopped him before,” he says, but this time I know that he is bluffing.

“You cannot stop him. You have no power over him. I know. I know that he rose up over your power and redeemed your most malicious act – turned it into your greatest defeat.”

“You speak too boldly for one as weak and vulnerable as you are. One snap of my jaws and you are gone. That other one,” he cannot even bring himself to say his name, “that other one was sinless. You are not.” He rocks on his paws, shifting his weight from one side to the other and bares his teeth. His eyes burn yellow.

“I was redeemed when you were defeated.” I stop myself…why should I bate this predator? What am I doing?

He growls and prances at the edge of the woods. “Come get the sticks that you desire.” He says, taunting me. “Your fire is dying and will soon grow cold.”

Now I am caught off guard. Somehow I know that the wolf will not leave the shadow of the forest and venture out into the clearing, but the sticks are in the trees. He laughs. I glance back at the fire and see its embers fading. The giant, still asleep, could give me warmth, but he is too oblivious to what is around him. He could crush me with an inadvertent movement. I have no weapon, not even a stick to protect me. I reach into my pocket and pull out my lighter.

“I need the sticks.” I say, with some resolve. “Stand aside.”

“Stand aside?” He is pacing wildly now along the edge of the trees. “Stand aside? You flippant fool. You miserable sinner. You misguided, silly, soul! Come meet me here and find your sticks, if you dare!”

I strike my lighter and the small flame glows. His eyes grow narrow and the hair upon the back of his neck stands on end. He growls long and low. “What is this?” he asks “What do you hold?”

“A light.”

“A light, a light…” he growls and paces.

I take a step toward the pile of sticks and he watches me. Three more steps and I am almost there. His growl grows louder and he gnashes his teeth. I race the last two steps and grab a branch, dry leaves cling to twigs along its surface. He lunges for me and I move the flame of my lighter beneath one of the leaves. The whole branch bursts into sudden flame. He wheels and is gone into the night.

The leaves burn out almost as soon as they flame. Hurriedly I gather a bundle of sticks and take them to the fire. I make one more trip, to assure myself that I have enough for the night and, with my heart still pounding, I drop the last bundle beside the fire. Then I realize that I have dropped my lighter. I see the silver end of it glint in the moonlight just at the edge of the clearing. I walk back with some hesitation to retrieve it, still shaken from the whole encounter.

“Well done, little one.” A voice speaks to me from the woods. “Only the terror you accept can overwhelm you. Faith can keep the terror at bay. Faith can overcome the shadows.” Like the great stone lion on the library steps, majestic head erect, a figure lies just inside the edge of the forest. He turns his eyes to mine.

“Aslan?” I cannot believe my eyes, my good fortune. “Aslan!” I run toward him, but just as I come close I see my own audacity and slow down.

“Come, child. I am here for you. Do not stop you feet for self-consciousness. Lose your preoccupation with yourself and come to me.” And so, I do. I run to his side and bury my hands deep in his mane and hug and hug and hug his great bulk, his great being. This is a joy I never dreamed could be my own. The warmth, the softness, the strength, the presence of the Lion in my own arms. Holy mystery. Holy joy. Wholly overwhelmed and filled am I.

3/2/95

[this soul story continues, here]

[First image is photo by Morgan C. Smith per cc 2.0; second image cropped from photo by Dennis Matheson per cc 2.0]

Play with me

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playing on the beachI sit quietly beneath the oak, looking out upon the meadow, waiting for the arrival of the sun. Here it comes, pushing away the rim of night, unfolding the morning. It rises, slowly, adding inch by inch to its presence, proclaimed by crimson clouds and wispy streaks of gold.

Then, though my eyes can hardly bear it, I see an image within the brilliant glow of the sun. A form, immensely bright: it is the Lord, the God of this meadow, the very one whose hand called it into being.

He walks forward to the well and sits upon its rim. The sunrise is behind him and he looks around his meadow, and up the hill to where I sit. He looks at me; into me. Then he nods at me and smiles, beckoning me to the well.

I rise and walk toward him, and as I draw closer, I begin to run. It is as if I am pulled by a magnet, the closer I am, the stronger the pull. I run to him and tackle him in my exuberance and together we fall into the well. He wraps me in his arms and I feel a low chuckle.

We are carried away by the waters of the well and are finally washed up on a beach – upon a warm and sandy shore. Together we run along its edges, kicking at the waves, tumbling in the sand, throwing shells into the water.

We play and play and play. We run in rhythm with each other, ducking and dodging, each anticipating the next step in this friendly game of chase. Finally, we stop to catch our breath. He hugs me close and dusts the sand from my cheek. I am a small child standing beside him as he sits upon the sand. He has wrapped his arms around me and rests his forehead on my chest. “Thank you,” he says to me.

I am astonished. “Are you thanking me for the romp?”

“Yes,” he replies, “Too often I come and no one is waiting for me. No one is ready to rejoice with me in the wonder of creation. I can usually find a serious servant to follow my instructions, but it is rare to find someone to play with me in the beauty of this world. I hope that you will come to me again, sometime, so we can play once more.”

“I will,” I promise. “Cross my heart.”

“And mine” he replies.

2/15/95

[photo by insiyah amiruddeen per cc 2.0]

a joyful gambol

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laughing faunThe oak outside my office window is a bridge to the meadow’s oak – to the land where my imagination plays. Outside my window, the branches are tangible, but they hold the intangible, offering it before me. I slide into my meadow and I am home.

I sit at the base of that tree. leaning back in a restful pose, grateful to have let down my load for a moment, suddenly conscious of how long it has been since I rested. I need your rest. No wonder my mind is stodgy and inept. I need re-creation. So, I release myself into your meadow, our meadow, and feel the delicious smoothness of your rest, your peace. I hear a melody of love, though the notes are not clear. I feel the caress of the breeze and almost, almost, drift off to sleep.

But suddenly I am snapped awake. The melody has become louder. It is joyful, sparkling, a march of quirky delights – of jokes and puns of gamboling fauns and fairies, of a Narnian circle under the stars, where all the animals meet on midsummer night to play in delight at the simple fact of creation.

There is much to delight in, in your creation. I find myself in the circle, right between two giggling young fauns who can barely stand. They are so excited to be here. They play upon their flutes from time to time, but laughter keeps them from adding much to the song. Never mind, there are plenty of singers. I feel a giggle rising in my chest. I feel the wrinkle of a smile upon my lips. It seems strange, to smile a real smile, to laugh with delight, to release myself to joy.

Too much responsibility.   I take it off like a coat and kick it – yes, I kick it aside.

Now, I am dressed in nothing but a thin summer dress, a breeze of a fabric that follows my dance as I begin to twirl. The fawns take a hand on ether side and dance me around almost tumbling over themselves in laughter and exuberance. We twirl and twirl until, exhausted, we fall onto the ground. An older faun gives one of the young ones a mockingly stern look, and then laughs, too.

Sudden there is a solemnness that overcomes the circle. It is not a sad solemnness, but a deeply joyful one. It quiets the laughter and spreads deep smiles and sighs through the crowd. Jesus himself has stepped into the middle of the circle. Not Aslan, but the Lord himself, in human form. He sits upon the hillside, leaning back so that he can look out at the crowd; look up at the sky. My two young fauns scramble over to sit as close to him as they can.

He smiles at them, and then begins to sing. He tilts his head back and sings. The tones rolling from his tongue repaint the sky, retouch the leaves, renew my heart. It is a jubilant, triumphant, invigorating song. When he is done, he looks straight at me. And smiles. Suddenly my own form is enriched, my own colors deepen, my own self becomes more real, more me, than I have been for a long time. He smiles again. He blows me a kiss and is gone. The whole scene is gone, but the colors remain in my heart. No longer gray am I. Life is returning with the sunrise. Color blooms.

Thank you.

Amen. amen. amen.

2/5/97

[image filtered from photo by ketrin1407 per cc 2.0]

Prayerful encounter

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coals

Come.
Please.
Come.

Please do.
I wait for you.

Is it true?
Are you hoping that I come?
Can the turning of this one small heart toward you
Make any difference at all?

It can.
Let me show you how.
Come.

So, I do.
Best I can
I turn my heart toward you.
I sit in the anteroom of your great court
With anxious anticipation, hoping to be called.
So many others sit with me in this dark and quiet place
Their petitions in their hands, twisting them, folding and unfolding
Frantic hopes scrawled on scraps of paper
Or carefully worded bargains, expecting a price for any favor.

And then, in a far, dark corner I catch a glimpse of you.
This is no anteroom – this is the room, itself
The very place of encounter
But these scraps of paper are our barrier – the veil between.

There is a small brazier in the middle of the room.
Ash-dusted coals glow faintly in its metal frame.
I walk to it and push my own papers through the grate.
I cry as I let them go – they carry my desperation and desire.
When they catch flame, it is my heart that burns.

Yet when my focus is on them, I see you only dimly.
When I have let them go, I find myself within your arms.
You rock me slowly, crooning in my ear.
And, when I have, at last, relaxed a bit
You hand me a small package, wrapped in fragile whiteness.
Within it beats my heart, purified and tempered by the fire.
It glows in response to your touch.
It beats more slowly, more firmly,
Anchored in you.

It is not that my petitions are devalued.
Instead, they have been transferred from my hands to your heart.
You know them deeply; hold them close.
They find their true expression in your warm embrace.

Somehow, for just a moment, I know
That they are more deeply felt
More deeply honored in your hands
Than they would ever be in mine.

Your response is not simply an answer,
But a fulfillment
Not held at arms length, but drawn deeply in.
All is exactly as it should be, where it must be –
Held in an irrevocable, irrepressible love.

May it be so.
May I know the whisper of that truth.
May those I hold in prayer
Know it, too.
Deeply, fully, truly know.

Amen.

[photo by Matthew Peoples per cc 2.0]

 

lists

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checklistThere is a list of things I must do.
Then there is a list of things I should do.
And a list of things that it would be good to do.
And even things I’d like to do.

But contemplation does not work so well with lists.
Lists are handles – so I do not let things drop.
Contemplation is about letting go.

Something in me is afraid to just let go.
What if I forget? What if I neglect? What if …
What if I disappear?
What if, without my tasks, there is no need for me?

I find, at last, a momentary pause within my soul.
I slip into that corner and hunker down upon a small stool
I pull a sheet over my head to hide myself from my lists.

And here, fidgeting, fretting restlessly, I try to wait.
I breathe. I count. I try to still my soul.
It’s not working very well.
In my mind’s eye I lean my head back into your chest.
And whisper, ‘help.’
It’s not a loud, or insistent, or confident whisper –
It’s more like a whine than a plea.

I don’t expect an answer.
I’m not even sure I want one.
But – I realize this with a bit of a start –
My head is resting upon your chest.
My hope is resting upon your presence.
Which means, of course, that you are here.
You are here. I am here.

That’s a beginning.
Actually, that’s a completion.
Daily moment of contemplation … check.
What’s next on my list?

AAAUGH!

The only thing that makes me smile at the end of all this
is your chuckle in my ear.

[photo by Wendy House per cc 2.0]

Like a Child

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blowing a bubble

To enter the kingdom of heaven, turn and become like a child. (see Matthew 18: 2-4)

This morning, I am a child.

I see the world with child’s eyes.
I hear the rumble of thunder
And remember being snuggled in my mother’s lap
Looking out the big windows of my childhood home
Counting the seconds between flash and sound.

When the skies clear a bit,
I run outside to play in the mud
Fascinated that a little moisture can turn dirt
Into something to be molded and shaped
Making ant highways with a twig.

And when one of those ants stings my finger
I run back in to find my comfort in a hug.
A kiss and a smile are deep medicine for my soul.
This anchoring process – going out and coming back
Stitches my days with love and adventure.

She blows the hair back from my face
And gives me bubble-soap and a wand.
I run out again to fill my world
With tiny orbs of dancing, translucent color,
My breath within them carried high.

This is, indeed, the kingdom of heaven.
Held in comfort, sent in wonder,
Coming and going, both anchored in love.
Feeling God’s breath upon my face
Breathing it back into the world.

I am grateful this morning
For a moment of childlike grace.
For the whisper of your consolation
For your gifts of beauty
For the burst of life within my soul.

[photo by Stuart per cc 2.0]

Which Will You Hold?

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hand of comfort (1)In the cottage, I am sitting on the edge of the bed, one sock on, one sock off, halfway through getting dressed, caught mid-thought, mid-action, in suspended animation. Seems I am always getting ready and never really getting things done – never there, always on the way.

“That’s what life is – the way.” The voice comes from a traveler, seated at my table. Brown woolen robe, gnarled staff, rope belt, craggy face and hands; this one has been on the way for quite a while.

I drop the second sock beside the bed and move to sit beside him at the table. “Give me your wisdom, traveler,” I ask. “Help me to know the next step. Help me to not be so afraid of what might come. Help me to not be so distracted in my journey.”

He places his large hands over mine, so that I must, for just a moment hold them still, I must stop drumming my fingers, must stop picking at the table. He just covers my hands with his warmth and waits. A long silence, at first comforting and then a bit awkward, ensues. Finally I pull my hands out from under his and rub them together. “Shouldn’t we be going?” I ask.

The traveler smiles, “Going where?”

“On down the road, on with our projects, with our duties, for the day,” I reply. “Can’t wait forever, you know and I’m rather far behind already.”

“Behind what?”

“Behind in my schedule… the things I must get done… I am behind.”

“But where are you going?” He asks again. He has made no move to get up, to begin the day. His whole frame seems immobile. Not dead, not resistant, but not filled with the urgency that I feel in me. “Where are you going?” He asks me one more time.

I look at him with a question in my eyes. “I’m not sure… But don’t you think that we should get started?”

“Not till we know where to go,” he is almost laughing at me. He shakes his head.

I can see how silly this looks, but even so, I am getting farther behind, and if I don’t know the end, I do have a list a mile long that is supposed to be done by now. Surely we can start there and sort it out as we go along. “Must we wait longer?” I plead. “I am late already on so many chores.”

“How do you know you are late?”

“My schedule was set out long ago and I am behind. My energy is running out before my task is done, my time is moving forward and the projects are not moving nearly so fast. How could I not be behind?”

“Depends on the clock you use. Depends on whose calendar is there in front of you.”

“Don’t you understand? I have screwed up. My list is long and getting longer. I am behind, I am lost, I am desperate…”

He puts his large hands back on top of mine once more. He has to hold them down firmly.   I fidget still. At last he picks up my hands in his and pulls them towards him and looks me directly in the eyes.

“My time, not yours. Live in my time.” He is very serious. His playfulness has passed and this is a solid, unshakable command.

My eyes fill with tears. “I wish I could,” I stutter.

He jerks my hands. “Don’t wish. Don’t put me off. You must follow my time. There is no other way.”

“But how?” I whimper.

“Stop crumbling.” He scolds. “Defeat is in your hands, but so is victory. Why do you pick defeat?”

“I see no other choice. How do I grasp victory?”

He turns my hands over and so that they point to the ceiling and form a small cup. “You don’t grasp victory. You receive it.”

My heart starts to argue, but its words go unformed. A pure clear light shines down from the ceiling of the cabin and lands squarely within my cupped hands. I can almost see images being formed within its glow, but cannot quite make out what they are. Then, as if the light is also water, it fills my hands to overflowing. It puddles on the table and begins to run along its surface like a small stream.

Then, just as quickly, the scene is transformed. I am beside the stream, beside a basin like cupped hands and he, the traveler, is beside me. A small raft is moored on the edge of the basin beside us, and the stream has grown now to a river, the basin to a pool. We step aboard the raft and he pushes us out into the middle of the river with his staff.

“Don’t give up yet.” He whispers, “Ride with me.”

“Ok.” That is all I know to say.

He grasps my hand. “Ok, then.”

We ride the stream together.

1/31/97

[image modified from photo by Bob Travis per cc 2.0]