I peek out the flap of my tent door.
Is there manna again, today?
Yes, there is manna.
I am amazed every morning at the miracle of this gift.
Yet, just before the morning,
I wonder,
Can I dare to hope that it will come again?
This quiet and consistent blessing
Builds my faith one morning at a time.
Here it is, again.
Thank you.
[photo by Ishai Parasol per cc 2.0]
I 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]
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.
Do you every find yourself wishing, hoping, praying
That you could figure out just what you should do
With this one precious life you have been given?
Do you ever, like me, feel as if you are lost in a fog,
Discouraged and distracted because you cannot see the next step?
You wonder what you should do.
You look for a path, or for a project.
But the fog clouds your vision and your heart.
And so, you stop and sigh,
And you take in a deep breath, preparing for another sigh.
And, surprisingly that intake of breath is an intake of hope.
You find within your lungs, the fresh whisper of God’s spirit.
You hold it within you for a moment,
And then you breathe it out into the fog.
And pause to see what it might do.
And for several moments you continue that cycle, over and over –
Breathe in the hope
Hold the wonder
Breathe out a blessing
Rejoice in its grace.
Breathe in the hope
Hold the wonder
Breathe out a blessing
Rejoice in its grace.
Breathe in the hope
Hold the wonder
Breathe out a blessing
Rejoice in its grace.
It becomes a wordless prayer.
Repeated with growing joy
Which takes root quietly within your soul
And lifts the fog, just a bit.
Breathe in the hope
Hold the wonder
Breathe out a blessing
Rejoice in its grace.
As the wisps of fog begin to clear
Within your heart
You find, to your surprise,
That there are, indeed, things you know to do.
They are not grand projects or torturous paths to take.
They are kindnesses offered and small tasks accomplished.
They lighten the load for those nearby.
There may be big things for another day.
But today, today, is well spent in kindness.
Those small things that come your way
Are bigger than you think.
And can help to clear the fog.
Today I breath.
I take in your hope
And hold it quietly within my soul.
I breathe out your blessing
And let it do its work.
I think, for just a moment,
That I have found what I should do
With this one day I have been given.
And I smile.
We smile.
Thank you.
Amen.
We learn to praise God not by paying compliments, but by paying attention. Watch how the trees exult when the wind is in them. Mark the utter stillness of the great blue heron in the swamp. Listen to the sound of the rain. Learn how to say “Hallelujah” from the ones who say it right. – Frederick Buechner
I walk down the hill to a shimmering grove of aspen, whose leaves dance together with each breeze, whose very trunks seem to sway in reverent unison, humming in silent tones a melody of wonder.
I step inside the grove. Even the air is different here. It is a crystal essence through which I walk, almost touchable, caressing me like water in a cool steam. The trees have formed a temple, more holy, more pure than any that could be made by human hands. The trunks of the great trees form living columns and the canopy of dancing leaves become the roof. The ground, the floor of this living temple, is a patterned tapestry of grasses, growing lush and resilient, too much for the shady space within a wood. Fed by the crystal air and held in harmony by the holiness of the place, the grassy floor spreads forth its beauty.
I stand at the edge of this temple of trees, full of wonder, drinking in with every breath a little of the essence that makes the very air glow. I am filled with worship, with praise, with wonder at the majesty and grace of God, with this perfect harmony, the almost crushing presence in each leaf and blade. The whole earth trembles, barely able to hold the essence that has poured itself into this form. The God of all creation, the God of each blade of grass, the God who formed my very soul – this God inhabits this place in a way that is more real than I have yet seen. Here worship is not an obligation, it is the overflow of wonder too big to be contained within such a small space as one’s own heart.
I drop to my knees – not in shame or even humility — for the glory of the place has driven out all preoccupation with self. I drop to the ground because I am overwhelmed with — what words are there? – more awesome than joy and not so selfish as gratitude, I am wrapped with an all encompassing love. It calls me into being; a being beyond who I could ever hope to be. It calls not for duty, not for obligation, but for creation itself.
Even worship is not a gift I give, but a gift to me. I never knew.
What can I give to the One who has created all? Only that which has already been given to me – and which I can withhold or offer, as if I, myself, had made it. I give my heart, and in the giving, I participate in its creation – in its recreation.
In this crystal moment, the Holy One reaches down into this temple of trees and lifts me to herself, hugs me to her own heart. There my heart is bound with hers and beats in timid rhythm with her own.
Oh majestic wonder, I feel it still, quietly beating inside me as I begin my day.
1/18/95
Hello
Do you remember me?
I used to come to talk to you most every day,
Leaning across the back fence of your mind,
Picking at the splinters in the rail,
Looking up at the clouds with a cocked eye,
Wondering with you about the rain.
Do you remember
The sweet release of walking across campus on a spring day
When the sun was intense and the breeze cool?
When the sheer joy of being engaged in a project worth doing
Hung playfully in the air
And the energy of shared purpose kept us fully engaged?
Do you remember
When movement felt good?
When arms swinging, backpack singing, legs reaching,
Were part of the joy of the journey?
When the caress of walking through waist-high wildflowers
And their gentle, moist presence
Brought a soul-deep green into your day?
Do you remember
The sleeping child upon your lap
Whose unconscious move to snuggle deeper into comfort
Was also a deep comfort to you?
When the flash of curious question in their eyes
Fed your soul with wonder?
When spontaneous smiles erupted for bugs and stones and anything fuzzy?
Do you remember
The comfort of sitting quietly together
Watching the sunset?
When the palpable sense of belonging to each other
Made words redundant?
Do you remember the touch of love?
Do you remember me?
I still come to talk to you most every day,
I still pick at the fence and look at the clouds.
I do remember. Thank you.
I am grateful, today, for the call to remember the richness of my life.
I am grateful for these whispered memories
For each small glimpse of wonder and connection.
They feed my soul with grace, again,
Just as they did before.
[photo by Bunches and Bits {Karina} per cc 2.0]
These words, whispered in my ear this morning:
Do you see, my little one,
The ribbon of red along the horizon?
Do you feel the rush of mystery,
Touched by the fingers of the sun as it rises?
Do you not know, deep in your soul, that my love for you
Is too deep for hope to be forever lost?
Take heart. Take my heart.
My hope for you will not stay in the tomb.
My hope for this world cannot be contained.
There is no crucible from which it cannot rise.
The depth of pain,
The nails of hate,
Even the denial of friends
Cannot hold the folds of darkness so firmly
That they refuse the new day,
Which is rising, even now.
And so, here is my blessing for you, this Easter morning:
May you rise from the many deaths you have encountered, strong and full and free
For this is the path I have opened for you.
My you hold my light of hope for the world to see.
May your fingers join the sun in searching out the mystery.
May you grasp hope as your talisman, as the abiding assurance of my love
That each day, each day, reaches out to you from the far horizon.
It is time for a resurrection.
Take it into your heart,
That I might live in you
That you might live in this world
And live it into resurrection, too.
[edited from photo by Sean MacEntee per cc 2.0]
[see also DONE! and Done]
We are silly little creatures.
Why would you concern yourself with us?
Why turn your magnificent heart toward such tiny trinkets?
It’s not the pull of the trinkets.
It’s the nature of your magnificent heart
To touch the soul of each little thing
And bring it to
Its full and glorious self.
Life calls to life.
Love calls to love.
Beauty calls to beauty.
You call to me.
[photo by Mike Bizeau from his wonderful photo blog, Nature has no Boss, used with permission]
Epiphany: (noun)
A sudden awakening
A flash of intuition and deeper understanding
An awareness that comes after a long and arduous journey from the east,
Where you first saw the star.
An insight that is accompanied by worship
And the giving of your most precious gifts,
In grateful recognition that there really is hope for the world
And for us all.
[photo, filtered, by Waiting For The Word per cc 2.0]
[reformatted and reposted]
Physics is right.
The way you look at things makes all the difference.
The looking, itself, changes reality.
When I look with generous eyes,
Willing to see wonder,
Searching for hope,
Watching for moments of grace,
My edges of my days are softened.
When others look at me with generous hearts,
Looking for reasons to love and affirm,
Rather than pointing to my warts and worries,
I am made whole.
What a gift to have friends
Who intentionally see the good in me,
Who hug me into my better self.
Perhaps that is the definition of a friend:
Someone who holds the mirror for your better self,
And calls it forth to play.
I am grateful, today, for friends like these.
They fill my life with grace.
They help to make me who I want to be.
After all, it’s not so much what you look at.
It’s what you see. It’s what we see, together.
Thank God.
Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Philippians 4:8
[photo by Khalid Al-Haqqan per cc 2.0]
Quiet Hope 
