Clouded with snow The cold winds blow, And shrill on leafless bough The robin with its burning breast Alone sings now.
The rayless sun, Day’s journey done, Sheds its last ebbing light On fields in leagues of beauty spread Unearthly white.
Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon Over that sea of frozen foam Floats the white moon. ~ Walter De la Mare, “Winter” from By Heart
Roused by a faint glow between closed slats of window blinds at midnight
Our bedroom suffused in ethereal glow from a moon-white sky, mixing a million stars and snowflakes
A snow light covers all, settling gently around us, tucking in the drifting corners of a downy comforter
while heaven comes to earth, plumps the pillows, cushions the landscape, and illuminates our longing hearts.
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And in despair I bowed my head “There is no peace on earth,” I said, “For hate is strong and mocks the song Of peace on earth, good will to men.”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth He sleep; The wrong shall fail, the right prevail With peace on earth, good will to men.” ~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow from “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day”
You, who are beyond our understanding, have made yourself understandable to us in Jesus Christ. You, who are the uncreated God, have made yourself a creature for us. You, who are the untouchable One, have made yourself touchable to us. You, who are most high, make us capable of understanding your amazing love and the wonderful things you have done for us. Make us able to understand the mystery of your incarnation, the mystery of your life, example and doctrine, the mystery of your cross and passion, the mystery of your resurrection and ascension. ~Angela of Foligno (1248-1309)– prayer
To all of you who come to this page each day to read words, hear music, see images of our farm life: may your sore heart be blessed, your troubled soul encouraged as we explore together the mystery of who was born today.
He does not sleep, so our eyes can rest. He came to die and rise again so we might live. He is the beauty and truth we seek for peace on earth.
The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit. John 3:8
To look at the last great self-portraits of Rembrandt or to read Pascal or hear Bach’s B-minor Mass is to know beyond the need for further evidence that if God is anywhere, he is with them, as he is also with the man behind the meat counter, the woman who scrubs floors at Roosevelt Memorial, the high-school math teacher who explains fractions to the bewildered child. And the step from “God with them” to Emmanuel, “God with us,” may not be as great as it seems.
What keeps the wild hope of Christmas alive year after year in a world notorious for dashing all hopes is the haunting dream that the child who was born that day may yet be born again even in us and our own snowbound, snowblind longing for him. ~Frederick Buechner from A Room Called Remember
God gave us all a garden once and walked with us at eve that we might know him face to face with no need to believe.
But we denied and hid from Him, concealing our own shame, yet still He came and looked for us, and called us each by name.
He found us when we hid from Him, He clothed us with His grace. But still we turned our backs on Him and would not see His face.
So now, He comes to us again, not as a Lord most high, but weak and helpless as we are, that we might hear Him cry.
And He who clothed us in our need, lies naked in the straw, that we might wrap Him in our rags when once we fled in awe.
The strongest comes in weakness now, a stranger to our door, the King forsakes His palaces and dwells among the poor.
And where we hurt, He hurts with us, and when we weep, He cries. He knows the heart of all our hurts, the inside of our sighs.
He does not look down from up above, but gazes up at us, that we might take Him in our arms, He always cradles us.
And if we welcome Him again, with open hands and heart, He’ll plant His garden deep in us, the end from which we start.
And in that garden, there’s a tomb, whose stone is rolled away, where we and everything we’ve loved are lowered in the clay.
But lo! the tomb is empty now, and clothed in living light, His ransomed people walk with One who came on Christmas night.
So come, Lord Jesus, find in me the child you came to save, stoop tenderly with wounded hands and lift me from my grave.
Be with us all, Emmanuel, and keep us close and true, be with us till that kingdom comes where we will be with You. ~Malcolm Guite — “A Tale of Two Gardens”
Heaven could not hold God.
Even though He is worshiped by angels, it is enough for Him to be held in His mother’s arms, His face kissed, His tummy full, to be bedded in a manger in lantern light.
It is enough for Him, as He is enough for us — even born as one of us, poor as we are — snowbound and ice-locked in our longing for something – anything – more. Our empty hearts fill with Him who came down when heaven could not hold Him any longer.
Imagine that. It is enough to melt us to readiness.
This year’s Advent theme “Dawn on our Darkness” is taken from this 19th century Christmas hymn:
Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, dawn on our darkness and lend us your aid. Star of the east, the horizon adorning, guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. ~Reginald Heber -from “Brightest and Best”
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What if you slept And what if In your sleep You dreamed And what if In your dream You went to heaven And there plucked a strange and beautiful flower And what if When you awoke You had that flower in your hand Ah, what then? ~Samuel Coleridge “What if you slept”
This mountain, this strange and beautiful Shuksan flower that appears suddenly as we round a corner on the hour drive up the Mt. Baker Highway: this mountain has one foot on earth and one foot in heaven – a thin place if there ever was one.
The only way to approach is in awed silence, as if entering the door of a grand cathedral. Those who are there speak in hushed tones if they speak at all.
Mt. Shuksan wears autumn lightly about its shoulders as a multi-faceted cloak, barely anticipating the heavy snow coat to descend in the next few weeks.
I hold this mountain tight in my fist, wanting to turn it this way and that, breathe in its fragrance, bring it home with me and never let go.
Ah, what then?
Home is not nearly big enough for heaven to dwell. I must content myself with this visit to the thin edge, peering through the open door, waiting until invited to come inside.
Original Barnstorming artwork note cards available as a gift to you with a $50 donation to support Barnstorming – information here
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О Greater Light, we praise Thee for the less; The eastern light our spires touch at morning, The light that slants upon our western doors at evening. The twilight over stagnant pools at batflight, Moon light and star light, owl and moth light, Glow-worm glowlight on a grassblade. О Light Invisible, we worship Thee! ~T.S. Eliot from “O Light Invisible”
Look, in the early light, Down to the infinite Depths at the deep grass-roots; Where the sun shoots In golden veins, as looking through A dear pool one sees it do; Where campion drifts Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts Of rising, falling seed That the winds lightly scour— Down to the matted earth where over And over again crow’s-foot and clover And pink bindweed Dimly, steadily flower. ~Michael Field “The Depths of the Grass”
We wove hip-high field grass into tunnels
knotting the tops of bunched handfuls the drooping heads tied together.
My seven siblings and I sheltered ourselves
inside these labyrinths in a galaxy of grasses. ~Heather Cahoon “Shelter”
As a child I liked to go out far into our hay field and find the tallest patch of grass. There, like a dog turning circles before a nap, I’d trample down the tall waving stems that stretched up almost to my eyes, and create a grass nest, just cozy enough for me. I’d sit or lie down in this tall green fortress, gazing up at the blue sky, and watch the clouds lazily drift over top of me. I’d suck on a hollow stem or two, to savor the bitter grass juice. Time felt suspended.
Scattered around my grassy cage, looking out of place attached to the broad grass stems, would be innumerable clumps of white foam. I’d tease out the hidden green spit bugs with their little black eyes from their white frothy bubble encasement. I too felt “bubble-wrapped” in my green hide-a-way.
My grassy nest was a time of retreat from the world. I felt protected, surrounded, encompassed and free –at least until I heard my mother calling for me from the house, or a rain shower started, driving me to run for cover, or my dog found me by following my green path.
It has been decades since I hid away in a grass fort trying to defoam spit bugs. Surely, I’m overdue: instead of being determined to mow down and level the grass around me, I long for a galaxy of grassy bubble-wrap.
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…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
Now, at sunset, all I see are dandelions on fire in the field.
To think I’ve carelessly walked through, on top of, over and around them for nearly 70 years, and only now I see what magic they contain once I settle down at their level and look. God grants me grace for my years of dandelion destruction.
They are so normal and ordinary: extraordinary happening over and over again.
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I believe the world would be a better place if we all could stop in the middle of the day and just rest our eyes for awhile — to look at the inside of our eyelids for a few minutes, to pause, to pray, to purr with contentment…
…perchance to dream. Aye, there’s the rub.
Perhaps, we might wake with a new perspective and an improved attitude. Works like a charm for our grandchildren.
And for me as well…
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I am a sheep and I like it because the grass I lie down in feels good and the still waters are restful and right there if I’m thirsty and though some valleys are very chilly there is a long rod that prods me so I direct my hooves the right way though today I’m trying hard to sit at a table because it’s expected required really and my enemies— it turns out I have enemies— are watching me eat and spill my drink but I don’t worry because all my enemies do is watch and I know I’m safe if I will just do my best as I sit on this chair that wobbles a bit in the grass on the side of a hill. ~Sally Fisher “Here in the Psalm” from Good Question
On the surface, a sheep’s life looks pretty easy – grazing in beautiful pastoral settings, blending in as a member of a flock, with the primary job being prolific in wool and lamb production.
Sounds pretty swell, all in all.
Yet it can be a hard-scrabble existence with not enough food or water in rocky terrain that is steep and tough to traverse. The wool coat can be incredibly burdensome and hooves can get too long or too short.
And the enemies: there are plenty of those just ready to pounce, eager to pick off the too young or too old or anyone just not paying attention. That’s why a Shepherd is so critical to our survival because they pay attention to the threats and the needs and defend the defenseless.
I’ve been labeled a sheep for unquestioningly following directions given to me, blending in, and appreciating the wisdom of the proper Shepherd. I don’t consider being considered a sheep an insult. I know I don’t know everything, nor am I capable of finding everything I need when I need it and I’m certainly not strong enough to fend off my worst enemies.
Though life often feels like I’m sitting in a wobbly chair at a table on uneven ground, I keep my balance. I am looking at a feast being readied for me at great risk to the shepherd. For that, I am immensely grateful as surely goodness and mercy will follow and sit alongside me, sharing this meal together forever.
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Now that summer’s ripen’d bloom Frolics where the winter frow n’d, Stretch’d upon these banks of broom, We command the landscape round.
Nature in the prospect yields Humble dales and mountains bold, Meadows, woodlands, heaths-and fields Yellow’d o’er with waving gold.
On the uplands ev’ry glade Brightens in the blaze of day; O’er the vales the sober shade Softens to an ev’ning gray. ~John Cunningham from “The Landscape”
Betty with children Carol, Barbara and Joethe renovated farm housethe “egg” house where produce was kept coolOn the porch in Spring Valley in the Palouse – me at age two with Nancy holding my baby brother Steve along with the Schmitz cousins – Joe, Barbara and Carol
My Aunt Betty Buchholz Schmitz lived for most of her 102 years in landscapes that could be summer-rich with golden crops yet in winter, harsh, bleak and empty. She weathered it all with hard work, grace and an innate sweetness born of her faith.
She was carried away last week to her true home to join my mother’s brother, Albert, and so many family and friends who had gone before her, including my mother who always felt blessed to call Betty her sister through marriage.
I remember Aunt Betty from my earliest days as we would make an annual summer visit to our cousins in Spring Valley, a tiny place with train tracks and a grain elevator in the middle of the rolling hills of the Palouse country of eastern Washington. I felt such a surge of excitement as we entered the long poplar-lined driveway that we could see from the road from far away.
My Palouse family lived in the farm house where my mother and uncle were born – a magical place of two stories with an enclosed staircase and many rooms, a huge basement, a sleeping porch for summer, a working windmill, as well as numerous outbuildings that contained everything Palouse wheat and lentil farmers needed to survive. The house was nestled in a small vale between the surrounding hills, to protect it from chill winter winds and stay cool in the shadows on blazing hot summer days.
Betty was a woman who was soft-spoken, always humble and eager to lend herself wherever needed. She cooked and baked huge meals, and used a wringer-washer and clothesline for never-ending loads of farm laundry. Her home was warm and welcoming with true heart-felt hospitality, even decades later after she moved to a house “in town” – a metropolis with just a few hundred neighbors.
Although a pioneer in the sense of living remotely with minimal conveniences, Betty and her brother Kenneth became pioneers in the 1960’s living donor kidney transplant program, as one of the first successful transplants. This must have required immense courage and stamina from a farm mother of three children, yet she was able to give her brother years of life that he otherwise would not have had.
Over the years, Betty sent cards and letters of encouragement to me in between our occasional visits to see her. She was the kind of aunt that modeled how I wanted to be and I have too often fallen short of her example.
I hoped to see Betty this summer, having missed visits over the last two years of COVID restrictions in her assisted living facility. Instead I will look for her smiling face and listen for her warm voice amid a lengthening list of beloved family and friends when I am called home some day myself.
I’ll see you again, Betty, in the glades of those rolling hills and the shadowed softened vales of the valleys. You will hold out your hand and make sure I feel at home there, just as you did for me during your century here.
Palouse fieldsPoplar-lined driveway to the Schmitz farm
Heart, I implore you, it’s time to come back from the dark, it’s morning, the hills are pink and the roses whatever they felt
in the valley of night are opening now their soft dresses, their leaves
are shining. Why are you laggard? Sure you have seen this a thousand times,
which isn’t half enough. Let the world have its way with you, luminous as it is
with mystery and pain– graced as it is with the ordinary. ~Mary Oliver “Summer Morning”
I love to stay in bed All morning, Covers thrown off, naked, Eyes closed, listening.
There’s a smell of damp hay, Of horses, laziness, Summer sky and eternal life.
I know all the dark places Where the sun hasn’t reached yet, Where the last cricket Has just hushed; anthills Where it sounds like it’s raining, Slumbering spiders spinning wedding dresses.
The good tree with its voice Of a mountain stream Knows my steps. It, too, hushes.
I stop and listen: Somewhere close by A stone cracks a knuckle, Another turns over in its sleep.
I hear a butterfly stirring Inside a caterpillar. I hear the dust talking Of last night’s storm.
Farther ahead, someone Even more silent Passes over the grass Without bending it.
And all of a sudden In the midst of that quiet, It seems possible To live simply on this earth. ~Charles Simic from “Summer Morning”
Reading headlines about yet more unimaginable losses and grieving people is extraordinarily painful on a summer morning when all should be luminous and lighthearted. My heart isn’t feeling the light at all; I struggle to leave behind those dark places where the sun hasn’t reached yet.
Yet if I’m still and quiet, I can hear life going on all around me. My sadness doesn’t change the mystery of a world God created in beauty and peace, now overshadowed by our fall into darkness, yet redeemed by a sacrificial Love we cannot possibly comprehend.
What a summer morning revelation. It’s as extraordinarily ordinary and simple as that.
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