To be commanded to love God at all, let alone in the wilderness , is like being commanded to be well when we are sick, to sing for joy when we are dying of thirst, to run when our legs are broken. But this is the first and great commandment nonetheless. Even in the wilderness- especially in the wilderness – you shall love him. ~Frederick Buechnerfrom A Room Called Remember
The wilderness might be a distant peak far removed from anything or anyone, where there is bleak darkness.
The wilderness might be the darkest corner of the human heart we keep far away from anything and anyone.
From my kitchen window on a clear day, I sometimes see a distant mountain wilderness, when the cloud cover moves away.
During decades of perching on a round stool in clinic exam rooms, I was given access to hearts lost in the wilderness many times every day.
Sometimes the commandment to love God seems impossible. We are too self-sufficient, too broken, too frightened, too wary to trust God with our love and devotion.
Recognizing a diagnosis of wilderness of the heart is straight forward: despair, discouragement,disappointment, lack of gratitude, lack of hope.
The treatment is to allow the healing power of the Father who sent His own Son to navigate the wilderness in our place.
He reaches for our bitter, wary, and broken hearts that beat within our bodies, to bring us home from the dark wilderness of our souls.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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…we all suffer. For we all prize and love; and in this present existence of ours, prizing and loving yield suffering. Love in our world is suffering love. Some do not suffer much, though, for they do not love much. Suffering is for the loving. This, said Jesus, is the command of the Holy One: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” In commanding us to love, God invites us to suffer.
Over there, you are of no help. What I need to hear from you is that you recognize how painful it is. I need to hear from you that you are with me in my desperation. To comfort me, you have to come close. Come sit beside me on my mourning bench. ~Nicholas Wolterstorff from Lament for a Son
I wondered if 7:30 AM was too early to call her. As a sleep-deprived fourth year medical student finishing a long night admitting patients in the hospital, I selfishly needed to hear her voice.
I wanted to know how Margy was doing with the latest round of chemotherapy for breast cancer; I knew she was not sleeping well these days. She was wearing a new halo brace—a metal contraption that wrapped around her head like a scaffolding to secure her degenerating cervical spine from collapsing from metastatic tumor growths in her bones.
She knew, we all knew, she was trying to buy more time from a life of rapidly diminishing days.
Each patient I had seen the previous 24 hours while working in the Emergency Room benefited from the interviewing skills Margy had taught each medical student in our class. She reminded us that each patient had an important story to tell, and no matter how pressured our time, we needed to ask questions that gave permission for that story to be told. As a former nun now married with two teenage children, Margy had become our de facto therapist at a time no medical school hired supportive counselors.
She insisted physicians-in-training remember the suffering soul thriving inside the broken body.
“Just let the patient know with certainty, through your eyes, your body language, your words, that you want to hear what they have to say. You can heal so much hurt simply by sitting beside them and caring enough to listen…”
After her diagnosis with stage 4 cancer, Margy herself became the broken vessel who needed the glue of a good listener. She continued to teach, often from her bed at home. I planned to visit her that day, maybe help out by cleaning her house, or take her for a drive as a diversion.
Her phone rang only once after I dialed her number. There was a long pause; I could hear a clearing of her throat. A deep dam of tears welled behind a muffled “Hello?”
“Margy?”
“Yes? Emily? ”
“Margy? What is it? What’s wrong?”
Her voice shattered like glass into fragments, strangling on words that struggled to form.
“A policeman just left. He told us our boy is dead.”
I sat in stunned silence, listening to her sobs, completely unequipped to know how to respond.
None of this made sense. I knew her son was on college spring break, heading to Mexico for a missions trip.
“I’m here, what’s happened?”
“The doorbell rang about an hour ago. Larry got up to answer it. I heard him talking to someone downstairs, so I decided to try to get up and go see what was going on. There was a policeman sitting with Larry on the couch. I knew it had to be about Gordy.”
She paused and took in a shuddering breath.
“The group was driving through the night in California. He was asleep in the back of the camper. They think he was sleepwalking and walked right out of the back of the moving camper and was hit by another car.”
Silence. A strangling choking silence.
“They’ll bring him home to me, won’t they? I need to know I can see my boy again. I need to tell him how much I love him.”
“They’ll bring him home to you, Margy. I’m on my way to help you get ready…“
God is not only the God of the sufferers but the God who suffers. … It is said of God that no one can behold his face and live. I always thought this meant that no one could see his splendor and live. A friend said perhaps it meant that no one could see his sorrow and live. Or perhaps his sorrow is splendor. … Instead of explaining our suffering, God shares it. ~Nicholas Wolterstorff from Lament for a Son
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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This morning’s sun is not the honey light of summer, thick with golden dust and slow as syrup pouring from a jug. It’s bright, but thin and cold, and slanted steep and low across the hillsides. Frost is blooming white, these flowers forced by icy winds that blow as hard this morning as they blew all night. Too cold for rain, but far too dry for snow.
And I am restless, pacing to and fro enduring winter’s grip that holds us tight. But my camellias, which somehow know what weather to expect—they’re always right— have broken bud. Now scarlet petals glow outside the window where I sit and write. ~Tiel Aisha Ansari “Camellias”from Dervish Lions
Near a shrine in Japan he’d swept the path and then placed camellia blossoms there.
Or — we had no way of knowing — he’d swept the path between fallen camellias. ~Carol Snow “Tour”
Camellias are hardy enough to withstand winter’s low temperatures, defying freezing winds and hard frosts with their resilience.
On windy days, full and ripe camellia blooms plop to the ground without warning, scattering about like a nubby floral throw rug. They are too bulky to step on, so the tendency is to pick a path around them, allowing them the dignity of a few more days before being swept off sidewalks.
In one sense, these fallen winter blossoms are holy messengers, gracing the paths the living must navigate. They are grounding for the passersby, a reminder our own time to let go will soon come. As we restlessly pursue our days and measure our steps, we respectfully make our way around their fading beauty.
An unexpected blessing is bestowed in the camellia’s restlessness: in their budding, in their breaking open, in their full blooming, in their falling to earth, in their ebbing away.
The grass withers and the flowers fall, because the breath of the Lord blows on them. Surely the people are grass. The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God endures forever. Isaiah 40:7-8
Mortals, born of woman, are of few days and full of trouble. They spring up like flowers and wither away; like fleeting shadows, they do not endure. Do you fix your eye on them? Job 14: 1-3
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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“Who killed Cock Robin?” “I,” said the Sparrow, “With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin.” “Who saw him die?” “I,” said the Fly, “With my little eye, I saw him die.” “Who caught his blood?” “I,” said the Fish, “With my little dish, I caught his blood.” “Who’ll make the shroud?” “I,” said the Beetle, “With my thread and needle, I’ll make the shroud.” “Who’ll dig his grave?” “I,” said the Owl, “With my pick and shovel, I’ll dig his grave.” “Who’ll be the parson?” “I,” said the Rook, “With my little book, I’ll be the parson.” “Who’ll be the clerk?” “I,” said the Lark, “If it’s not in the dark, I’ll be the clerk.” “Who’ll carry the link?” “I,” said the Linnet, “I’ll fetch it in a minute, I’ll carry the link.” “Who’ll be chief mourner?” “I,” said the Dove, “I mourn for my love, I’ll be chief mourner.” “Who’ll carry the coffin?” “I,” said the Kite, “If it’s not through the night, I’ll carry the coffin.” “Who’ll bear the pall?” “We,” said the Wren, “Both the cock and the hen, we’ll bear the pall.” “Who’ll sing a psalm?” “I,” said the Thrush, “As she sat on a bush, I’ll sing a psalm.” “Who’ll toll the bell?” “I,” said the bull, “Because I can pull, I’ll toll the bell.” All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing, When they heard the bell toll for poor Cock Robin. ~Anonymous“Who Killed Cock Robin”
photo by Kate Steensma of Steensma Creameryphoto by Harry Rodenberger
Sighing and sobbing…
The times we live in now are surreal as this dark nursery tale rhyme about the killing of a robin by a smaller bird.
What do we do with the sparrow’s proud confession in the first stanza? Whatever happened to instigate such destructive violence? Self-defense? Vengeance? Accident? Just for sport? Or simple random cruelty?
Such boasting about a killing makes about as much sense as our being witness to the overt destruction of the rule of law taking place right under our noses in the U.S.
Hear the bell toll. We are each diminished as citizens. Let the mourning begin. It is our own death we grieve…
Medieval Stained Glass of a robin shot by an arrow in Buckland Rectory, Gloucester, UK
No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. Each man’s death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For Whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee… ~John Donne from “For Whom the Bell Tolls”
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Out of the bosom of the Air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken Silent, and soft, and slow Descends the snow.
Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels.
This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded, Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow “Snow-Flakes”
Snowflakes cover all, settling in around us, drifting about the tucked corners of a downy white comforter
Watching as heaven comes to earth, plumps the pillows, cushions the landscape, and tries to lighten our grieving hearts.
I know dark clouds will gather ’round me I know my way is hard and steep But beauteous fields arise before me Where God’s redeemed, their vigils keep ~from Wayfaring Stranger
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I got out of bed on two strong legs. It might have been otherwise. I ate cereal, sweet milk, ripe, flawless peach. It might have been otherwise. I took the dog uphill to the birch wood. All morning I did the work I love. At noon I lay down with my mate. It might have been otherwise. We ate dinner together at a table with silver candlesticks. It might have been otherwise. I slept in a bed in a room with paintings on the walls, and planned another day just like this day. But one day, I know, it will be otherwise. ~Jane Kenyon “Otherwise”
…this has been a day of grace in the dead of winter, the hard knuckle of the year, a day that unwrapped itself like an unexpected gift, and the stars turn on, order themselves into the winter night. ~Barbara Crooker from “Ordinary Life” in Barbara Crooker: Selected Poems
…it’s easy to forget that the ordinary is just the extraordinary that’s happened over and over again. Sometimes the beauty of your life is apparent. Sometimes you have to go looking for it. And just because you have to look for it doesn’t mean it’s not there. God, grant me the grace of a normal day. ~Billy Coffey
…there is no such thing as a charmed life, not for any of us, no matter where we live or how mindfully we attend to the tasks at hand. But there are charmed moments, all the time, in every life and in every day, if we are only awake enough to experience them when they come and wise enough to appreciate them. ~Katrina Kenison from The Gift of an Ordinary Day
These dead of winter days are lengthening, slowly and surely. I’m thankful I’m retired now so I no longer I leave the farm in darkness to head to work in town, and return in darkness at the end of the workday. I’m able to do my barn chores at either end of the day as the sun is rising to chase away the moon, and later as the sun is chased away by starlight.
I tend to get complacent in my daily routines, confident in the knowledge that tomorrow will be very much like yesterday. The distinct blessings of an ordinary day are lost in the rush of moving forward to whatever comes next. Poet Jane Kenyon wrote her poem with the knowledge she was dying of leukemia, which meant each ordinary day was precious indeed.
The reality is there is nothing ordinary about the events of each day. It might have been otherwise and some day it will be otherwise. That is the hard knuckle of the days we are given, each a gift, each peaches and cream.
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By the road to the contagious hospital under the surge of the blue mottled clouds driven from the northeast — a cold wind. Beyond, the waste of broad, muddy fields brown with dried weeds, standing and fallen
patches of standing water the scattering of tall trees
All along the road the reddish purplish, forked, upstanding, twiggy stuff of bushes and small trees with dead, brown leaves under them leafless vines —
Lifeless in appearance, sluggish dazed spring approaches —
They enter the new world naked, cold, uncertain of all save that they enter. All about them the cold, familiar wind —
Now the grass, tomorrow the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
One by one objects are defined — It quickens: clarity, outline of leaf
But now the stark dignity of entrance — Still, the profound change has come upon them: rooted they grip down and begin to awaken ~William Carlos Williams “Spring and All”
A week still left of January with much of the country in deep freeze, covered in snow and ice with bitter wind chill.
Yet the wintry outsides begin to awaken– tender buds swelling, bulbs breaking through soil, in reentry to the world from the dark and cold.
Like a mother holding the mystery of her quickening belly, so hopeful and marveling – she knows soon and very soon there will be spring.
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I would permit no man to narrow and degrade my soul by making me hate him. ~Booker T. Washington from Up from Slavery
Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction…. The chain reaction of evil — hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars — must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation. ~Martin Luther King Jr. from Strength to Love
Do not be overwhelmed with evil but overcome evil with good. Romans 12:21
The goal of this life is to live with love and compassion for others, even those who try to pull us deep into the abyss of hatred.
Each of us, whether president, prince or pauper, is called to give up our own selfish agendas and consider the dignity of others and their greater good.
Cherish life: all lives – as is crystal clear from Christ’s example on the cross – including those who do hateful things and want to harm us. Let us not be pulled down to their level, spewing angry vindictive words rather than words of grace and peace.
Our only defense against evil is God’s love as sacrifice; only He can lead us to “where everything sad will come untrue”, where tears are no longer shed in anger, sorrow, and fear.
The light beam of His love finds us in the dark abyss. The great shadow of meanness and hatefulness departs.
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Oh the starving Winter-lapse! Ice-bound, hunger-pinched and dim; Dormant roots recall their saps, Empty nests show black and grim, Short-lived sunshine gives no heat, Undue buds are nipped by frost, Snow sets forth a winding-sheet, And all hope of life seems lost. ~Christina Rossetti “Winter” from “Seasons”
I sought the wood in winter When every leaf was dead; Behind the wind-whipped branches The winter sun set red. The coldest star was rising To greet that bitter air, The oaks were writhen giants; Nor bud nor bloom was there. The birches, white and slender, In deathless marble stood, The brook, a white immortal, Slept silent in the wood. ~Willa Cather from “I Sought the Wood in Winter”
A wintry soul can be a cold and empty place.
I appeal to my Creator who knows my struggle.
He asks me to keep my promises because He keeps His promises. His buds of hope and light and warmth still grace my bare branches.
He brings me out of the dark night’s chill, into the freshness of a frosty dawn, to finish what He brought me here to do.
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How granular they feel—grief and regret, arriving, as they do, in the sharp particularities of distress. Inserting themselves— cunning, intricate, subversive—into our discourse.
In the long night, grievances seem to multiply. Old dreams mingling with new. Disappointment and regret bludgeon the soul, your best imaginings bruised, your hopes ragged.
Yet wait, watch. From the skylight the room is filling with soft early sun, slowly sifting its light on the bed, on your head, a shower of fine particles. How welcome. And how reliable. ~Luci Shaw“Sorrow”
(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)
Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
We are given a box full of darkness by someone who loves us, and we can’t help but open it, weeping.
It takes a lifetime to understand, if we ever do, we will inevitably hand off this gift to others we love.
Opening the box allows the Light in where none existed before.
Light pours into our brokenness.
Sorrow ends up shining through our tears: we reach out from a deep well of need. Because we are loved so thoroughly, we too love deeply beyond ourselves.
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