Hope

 

 

 

 

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This week I wanted to spend time listening to Christmas music, wrapping Christmas gifts and baking Cranberry bread. I did these things, but along with so many others , I struggled, shattered by news of more violence against  innocent people , heartbreaking photos of grief-stricken families, terrified refugees, and the darkness of human hearts without hope and faith and love.

I have this pottery jar on my kitchen window sill.  It has been shaped and fired and given as a gift of love. In deeper, mysterious ways, Advent is expressed hope, shaped and fired and given. In the darkest of times, this hope remains.

To love means loving the unlovable. To forgive means pardoning the unpardonable. Faith means believing the unbelievable. Hope means hoping when everything seems hopeless.
Gilbert K. Chesterton

Let Advent Begin

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Photo by Pert Garraway                                    Night Blooming Cereus

My friend sent me cuttings of her night blooming Cereus plants.  She is a good gardener, and as her photo displays, she is an excellent photographer. But she would not be able to share this picture if  she were not also willing to sacrifice some sleep (they only bloom at night) as well as patiently wait for the swelling buds to open. I removed my cuttings from their mailing envelope and  put them into damp earth.  But I, too, must wait as they begin to root and grow and bloom.

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As I sit this morning, the first day of Advent, I think of this cycle and  am reminded of another gift, the wonder of  beginning again, of rooting and growing and waiting to experience the greatest mystery of all. .

Adult Advent Announcement

O Lord,
Let Advent begin again
In us,
Not merely in commercials;
For that first Christmas was not
Simply for children,
But for the
Wise and the strong.
It was
Crowded around that cradle,
With kings kneeling.
Speak to us
Who seek an adult seat this year.
Help us to realize,
As we fill stockings,
Christmas is mainly
For the old folks —
Bent backs
And tired eyes
Need relief and light
A little more.
No wonder
It was grown-ups
Who were the first
To notice
Such a star.

From If I Could Pray Again, by David Redding

Journey Home

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Two days ago I traveled home to the Autumn woods of East Texas. There we celebrated the life and final home-going of my brother-in-law.

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Color left the trees and bled into the sky as we turned south to head home.

 

 

City lights and sights say “welcome home.”

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“Life’s a voyage that’s homeward bound.”

Herman Melville

 

 

Neighbors

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open the garden gate

come sit while we talk,

receiving the gift of each other

“While the spirit of neighborliness was important on the frontier because neighbors were so few, it is even more important now because out neighbors are so many.”   —Lady Bird Johnson

Tonight is National NIght Out, a time when we are encouraged to get together on our street or in our neighborhood.  There will be a gathering near us. I would like to know my neighbors better. I need to know my neighbors better. Because all of us are so busy with our own family’s schedule, it becomes an act of mindfulness and will to take the steps that make that possible.

“We become neighbors when we are willing to cross the road for one another… There is a lot of road crossing to do. We are all very busy in our own circles. We have our own people to go to and our own affairs to take care of. But if we could cross the road once in a while and pay attention to what is happening on the other side, we might indeed become neighbors.”  Henri J. Nouwen,  Bread for the Journey: A Daybook of Wisdom and Faith

Why?

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Anyone who has been around small children knows how often we hear the question “Why?”  I have been asking that question about my fig harvest this year.  We have a fine fig tree in the garden that typically has so many green figs it is hard to keep up with the harvest as they ripen.  This year we had an unusually wet June and although there were hundreds of green figs and they began to ripen early, harvest slowed and stopped completely in the second week. Our brutal Texas heat came on suddenly. My research tells me the tree went into conservation mode and began aborting its fruit.  Even though we watered heavily, nothing brought back the production so the hard little green figs began to drop to the ground, wasted and of no use to anyone. Not even the birds would eat them.

The problem is that  figs are  shallow rooted and easily stressed. That reminded me of my own need for  being rooted deeply to be able to take the heat and  avoid reacting in damaging ways to the stress of our uncertain times!

” May your roots go down deep into the soil of God’s marvelous love;”  Ephesians 3: 17, The Living Bible

symphony

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Words in these lines from William Henry Channing create  a leit motif  as we slow down into the pace and space of summer. The song of this tiny feathered friend perched on the back of our porch swing calls me to stop and look and listen. And sing.

listen to stars and birds and babies and wisdom

open my heart

think quietly

talk gently

hurry never

let the holy grow up through the common

sing

“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not, rich; to listen to stars and birds, babes and sages, with open heart; to study hard; to think quietly, act frankly, talk gently, await occasions, hurry never; in a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common — this is my symphony.”

William Henry Channing

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Faithful

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photo by Jeremy Parker

The past weeks have been full of unknowns and discovery – rivers rising, flooding, storms, fevers, 911 call, uncertain hospital days, alongside nest watching, eggs hatching, and bird watching. Contrasts of hospital and home, of chaos and peace, of anxiety and trust, of leaving and staying. Each trip to and from the hospital I checked on the tiny nest by the door. Over the weekend after I brought my husband home, he discovered a new scene. I thought our front porch nest of eggs was home to a House Wren, but after my son was able to get this photograph, we see that her rakish white eyebrows declare she is a Carolina Wren.  Mama bird now has babies to feed, so she is flying off for food finding forays. Since Carolina Wrens mate for life, and both male and female take care of nestlings, we are watching for both and enjoying the songs.

 

faithful mama

protection and provision

her mission

 

 

What Is Mine to Do?

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Photography courtesy of Pert Roddy Garraway, who grows these beautiful plants.

In my observance of Lent this year, I worked with others in an online retreat reflecting on the question “What is mine to do?”  The question comes from Jesus when he said” “What I just did was to give you an example: as I have done, so you must do.” When his own  death was approaching,  St. Francis told us, “I have done what is mine to do. May Christ teach you what is yours.”

For me, the answer to the posed question is simply that what is mine to do is to practice serving. I am not sure why, but my friend’s photo of her beautiful Cereus reminds me of serving.  It may be because this exquisite blooming only happens at night, when it is unseen by many. It does not require the brilliance of sunlight to bloom on, offering its beauty and fragrance. for a brief time.

I have become aware of the difference in helping, in fixing, as opposed to serving. When I worked as a registered nurse, my connection to patients was best applied in service to them and to their families as opposed to a goal of repair.  I am aware that in my community relationships, my parenting, and my grandparenting, my calling to serve may be played out in many different roles – in offering hospitality, in gardening and cooking and sharing the beauty of art and music. My joy in any of these is heightened as I realize that this, too, is serving.

“Serving is different from helping. Helping is not a relationship between equals. A helper may see others as weaker than they are, needier than they are, and people often feel this inequality. The danger in helping is that we may inadvertently take away from people more than we could ever give them; we may diminish their self-esteem, their sense of worth, integrity or even wholeness.

When we help, we become aware of our own strength. But when we serve, we don’t serve with our strength; we serve with ourselves, and we draw from all of our experiences. Our limitations serve; our wounds serve; even our darkness can serve. My pain is the source of my compassion; my woundedness is the key to my empathy.

Fixing and helping create a distance between people, but we cannot serve at a distance. We can only serve that to which we are profoundly connected.”

–Dr. Rachel Naomi Remen

Thoughts and Prayers for April

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 In her memoir Iona Dreaming, Claire Marcus Cooper writes: “when something pulls at my attention, it is likely to hold an important message. Stand firm as we do, the trees seem to say. We are resting now – no leaves, no growth It’s a time to hibernate and recoup; without the times of non-doing, we would not be able to form buds in the spring and draw our sap to feed summer growth. Let yourself rest and be. You are gathering strength for a new role that awaits you.”    since these past 2 months have been just such a time of non-doing for me, it is easy to see why those words are  so meaningful. As I watch the greening of my garden from my window and porch, it is as if I feel the blush of an inward greening, urging me to welcome what is to come.
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Just before the green begins there is the hint of green
a blush of color, and the red buds thicken
the ends of the maple’s branches and everything
is poised before the start of a new world,
which is really the same world
just moving forward from bud
to flower to blossom to fruit
to harvest to sweet sleep, and the roots
await the next signal, every signal
every call a miracle and the switchboard
is lighting up and the operators are
standing by in the pledge drive we’ve
all been listening to: Go make the call.

“April Prayer” by Stuart Kestenbaum, from Prayers & Run-On Sentences