How beautiful the things are that you did not notice before! A few sweetclover plants Along the road to Bellingham, Culvert ends poking out of driveways, Wooden corncribs, slowly falling, What no one loves, no one rushes towards or shouts about, What lives like the new moon, And the wind Blowing against the rumps of grazing cows. ~Robert Bly from “Like the New Moon I Will Live My Life”
“A devout but highly imaginative Jesuit,” Untermeyer says in my yellowed college omnibus of modern poets, perhaps intending an oxymoron, but is it? Shook foil, sharp rivers start to flow. Landscape plotted and pieced, gray-blue, snow-pocked begins to show its margins. Speeding back down the interstate into my own hills I see them fickle, freckled, mounded fully and softened by millennia into pillows. The priest’s sprung metronome tick-tocks, repeating how old winter is. It asks each mile, snow fog battening the valleys, what is all this juice and all this joy? ~Maxine Kumin “Almost Spring, Driving Home, Reciting Hopkins”
The Robert Bly poem reminds me to see in a new way as I travel the road to Bellingham, Washington (not Bly’s Bellingham, Minnesota).
My eyes scan for the unnoticed and unremarkable, along these rural byways I traveled decades to work, now only to meetings or shopping – when feeling the need to wander and wonder.
Forty years ago in my twice-daily hour-long Seattle traffic commute to reach my clinic, I could only pay attention to the cars around me, blinkered to all else happening.
Since moving north to Whatcom County, I try to notice what small things I might keep handy in my memory for another day, like a jar of canned peaches in our root cellar, just so I won’t forget, ready to pull them off the shelf someday so I might share their sweetness with someone else.
photo by Joel DeWaard
Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. …to get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed. ~Abraham Joshua Hershel
photo by Harry Rodenberger
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Some of the people of Jerusalem therefore said, “Is not this the man whom they seek to kill? And here he is, speaking openly, and they say nothing to him! Can it be that the authorities really know that this is the Christ? But we know where this man comes from, and when the Christ appears, no one will know where he comes from.”
So Jesus proclaimed, as he taught in the temple, “You know me, and you know where I come from. But I have not come of my own accord. He who sent me is true, and him you do not know. I know him, for I come from him, and he sent me.”
So they were seeking to arrest him, but no one laid a hand on him, because his hour had not yet come.Yet many of the people believed in him. They said, “When the Christ appears, will he do more signs than this man has done?”
The Pharisees heard the crowd muttering these things about him, and the chief priests and Pharisees sent officers to arrest him. Jesus then said, “I will be with you a little longer, and then I am going to him who sent me.You will seek me and you will not find me. Where I am you cannot come.”
The Jews said to one another, “Where does this man intend to go that we will not find him? Does he intend to go to the Dispersion among the Greeks and teach the Greeks?
What does he mean by saying, ‘You will seek me and you will not find me,’ and, ‘Where I am you cannot come’?” John 7:25-36
Where is my God ? what hidden place Conceals Thee still? What covert dare eclipse Thy face? Is it Thy will?
O let not that of anything; Let rather brass, Or steel, or mountains be Thy ring, And I will pass.
Thy will such a strange distance is, As that to it East and West touch, the poles do kiss, And parallels meet. ~George Herbert from “The Search”
I try to find you, yet you are not here. I’ve studied absence, fought to fill it in – courage comes easier with a grasp of why.
A secret’s camouflaged when unconcealed. I chose to not see/saw the thing too near? Absence turns thicker, muscled by its strain.
A moon in daylight, whitest blue on blue, surprises briefly, to appear surreal until it slips to rights…
… plain sight goes blind through chasing clarity. I looked for you, so couldn’t see you gone.
I sensed your not-there in its burning life. I listened out to feel its silence beat. It does not speak with any human mouth. ~Denise Riley from “Hiding in Plain Sight” from Say Something Back
Jesus arrived in Jerusalem in plain sight to the people there, but they did not trust what they saw Him do nor trust His Words, unable to fathom He could be the long-awaited Christ.
Their partial understanding of who they believe the Christ would be blinds them to the Christ who is right before their eyes.
Later on, the resurrected Jesus – appearing as a gardener, a stranger on the road to Emmaus, a figure cooking fish over a charcoal fire on the beach – is the Christ hidden in plain sight.
Jesus’ presence among us – a paradox from beginning to end. Our limited vision and knowledge challenge us to accept His divinity when we see only the man. Yet He is so much more…
The veil pulls back to show us who He is.
I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year alongside my church family. Once a week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.
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Now there was a man of the Pharisees named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews.This man came to Jesus by night and said to him, “Rabbi, we know that you are a teacher come from God, for no one can do these signs that you do unless God is with him.”
Jesus answered him, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born again he cannot see the kingdom of God.”
Nicodemus said to him, “How can a man be born when he is old? Can he enter a second time into his mother’s womb and be born?”
Jesus answered, “Truly, truly, I say to you, unless one is born of water and the Spirit, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit. Do not marvel that I said to you, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows where it wishes, and you hear its sound, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.”
Nicodemus said to him, “How can these things be?”
Jesus answered him, “Are you the teacher of Israel and yet you do not understand these things?Truly, truly, I say to you, we speak of what we know, and bear witness to what we have seen, but you do not receive our testimony. If I have told you earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you heavenly things? No one has ascended into heaven except he who descended from heaven, the Son of Man. And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life. John 3: 1-15
When I lay these questions before God I get no answer. But a rather special sort of “No answer.”
It is not the locked door. It is more like a silent, certainly not uncompassionate, gaze.
As though he shook his head not in refusal but waiving the question.Like, “Peace, child; you don’t understand.”
Can a mortal ask questions which God finds unanswerable? Quite easily, I should think. All nonsense questions are unanswerable.
How many hours are there in a mile? Is yellow square or round?
Probably half the questions we ask – half our great theological and metaphysical problems – are like that. ~C.S. Lewis from A Grief Observed
I know now, Lord, why you utter no answer. You are yourself the answer. Before your face questions die away. ~C.S. Lewis from Till We Have Faces
At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendors we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so. Someday, God willing, we shall get in. ~C.S. Lewis from The Weight of Glory
And now brothers, I will ask you a terrible question, and God knows I ask it also of myself. Is the truth beyond all truths, beyond the stars, just this: that to live without him is the real death, that to die with him the only life? ~Frederich Buechner from The Magnificent Defeat
And that is just the point… how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response. That’s the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. “Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?” ~Mary Oliver from Long Life
Some days, it is impossible to be a silent observer of the world. I ask so many unanswerable questions.
When the wind and rain pulls down nearly every leaf, the ground is carpeted with the dying evidence of last spring’s rebirth, there can be no complacency in witnessing life in progress.
It blusters, rips, drenches, encompasses, buries. Nothing remains as it was. And neither do we.
And yet here I am, alive. Awed. Born to be a witness to all this. Called to comment. Dying to hear a response.
I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year. Once a week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.
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And this is the testimony of John, when the Jews sent priests and Levites from Jerusalem to ask him, “Who are you?” He confessed, and did not deny, but confessed, “I am not the Christ.”
And they asked him, “What then? Are you Elijah?” He said, “I am not.” “Are you the Prophet?” And he answered, “No.” So they said to him, “Who are you? We need to give an answer to those who sent us. What do you say about yourself?” He said, “I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, ‘Make straight the way of the Lord,’ as the prophet Isaiah said.”
(Now they had been sent from the Pharisees.) They asked him, “Then why are you baptizing, if you are neither the Christ, nor Elijah, nor the Prophet?”
John answered them, “I baptize with water, but among you stands one you do not know,even he who comes after me, the strap of whose sandal I am not worthy to untie.” These things took place in Bethany across the Jordan, where John was baptizing. John 1:19-28
We grow accustomed to the Dark — When Light is put away — As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp To witness her Good bye —
A Moment — We Uncertain step For newness of the night — Then — fit our Vision to the Dark — And meet the Road — erect —
And so of larger — Darknesses — Those Evenings of the Brain — When not a Moon disclose a sign — Or Star — come out — within —
The Bravest — grope a little — And sometimes hit a Tree Directly in the Forehead — But as they learn to see —
Either the Darkness alters — Or something in the sight Adjusts itself to Midnight — And Life steps almost straight. ~Emily Dickinson
I admit that I’ve been stumbling about in the dark, bearing the bruises and scrapes of random collisions with objects hidden in the night.
My eyes must slowly adjust to such bare illumination, as the Lamp sometimes is carried away. I must feel my way along the road of life.
I know there are fellow darkness travelers who also have lost their way and their Light, giving what they can and sometimes more.
And so, blinded as we each are, we run forehead-first into the Tree which has always been there and always will be.
Because of who we are and Who loves us, we, now free and forgiven, follow a darkened road guaranteed straight, all the way Home.
I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year. Each week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.
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There was a man sent from God, whose name was John.He came as a witness, to bear witness about the light, that all might believe through him.He was not the light, but came to bear witness about the light.
The true light, which gives light to everyone, was coming into the world.He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him.He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him.But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God,who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God. John 1:6-13
God, Who made the sun, also made the moon. The moon does not take away from the brilliance of the sun. The moon would be only a burnt-out cinder floating in the immensity of space were it not for the sun. All its light is reflected from the sun. On dark nights we are grateful for the moon; when we see it shining, we know there must be a sun. So in this dark night of the world when men turn their backs on Him Who is the Light of the World, we … await the sunrise. ~Archbishop Fulton Sheenfrom The World’s First Love
John the Baptist was clear: he was a witness to the True Light Jesus, not the light himself.
He reflected the origin of light, like the moon reflects the sun.
We are naturally wary of prophets, not knowing who to believe and who leads us astray. God warns us about false prophets, yet we have difficulty discerning truth, so turn our backs to it, missing the Light.
Instead, when I see moonlight, I try to remember the message of John the Baptist: seeing the moon glow reminds me the Sun is the true origin of Light. And so as God’s children, we are to reflect the Light as well, bearing witness in the darkness.
I am reading slowly through the words in the Book of John over the next year. At the beginning of each week, I will invite you to “come and see” what those words might mean as we explore His promises together.
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I want to be a passenger in your car again and shut my eyes while you sit at the wheel,
awake and assured in your own private world, seeing all the lines on the road ahead,
down a long stretch of empty highway without any other faces in sight.
I want to be a passenger in your car again and put my life back in your hands. ~Michael Miller “December”
I heard an old man speak once, someone who had been sober for fifty years, a very prominent doctor. He said that he’d finally figured out a few years ago that his profound sense of control, in the world and over his life, is another addiction and a total illusion. He said that when he sees little kids sitting in the back seat of cars, in those car seats that have steering wheels, with grim expressions of concentration on their faces, clearly convinced that their efforts are causing the car to do whatever it is doing, he thinks of himself and his relationship with God: God who drives along silently, gently amused, in the real driver’s seat. ~Anne Lamott from Operating Instructions
Up north, the dashboard lights of the family car gleam in memory, the radio plays to itself as I drive my father plied the highways while my mother talked, she tried to hide that low lilt, that Finnish brogue, in the back seat, my sisters and I our eyes always tied to the Big Dipper I watch it still on summer evenings, as the fireflies stream above the ditches and moths smack into the windshield and the wildlife’s red eyes bore out from the dark forests we flew by, then scattered like the last bit of star light years before. It’s like a different country, the past we made wishes on unnamed falling stars that I’ve forgotten, that maybe were granted because I wished for love. ~Sheila Packa “Driving At Night” from The Mother Tongue
The moon was like a full cup tonight, too heavy, and sank in the mist soon after dark, leaving for light
faint stars and the silver leaves of milkweed beside the road, gleaming before my car.
Yet I like driving at night… the brown road through the mist
of mountain-dark, among farms so quiet, and the roadside willows opening out where I saw
the cows. Always a shock to remember them there, those great breathings close in the dark.
I stopped, and took my flashlight to the pasture fence. They turned to me where they lay, sad
and beautiful faces in the dark, and I counted them-forty near and far in the pasture…
I switched off my light.
But I did not want to go, not yet, nor knew what to do if I should stay, for how
in that great darkness could I explain anything, anything at all. I stood by the fence. And then
Some of my most cherished childhood memories come from long rides home in the car at night from holiday gatherings. My father always drove, my mother hummed “I See the Moon” in the front passenger seat, and we three kids sat in the back seat, drowsy and full of feasting.
The night world hypnotically passed by outside the car window. I wondered whether the rest of the world was as safe and content as I felt at that moment.
On clear nights, the moon followed us down the highway, shining a light on the road.
Now as a driver at night, transporting grandchildren from a family gathering, I want them to feel the same peaceful contentment that I did as a child. As an older driver, I don’t enjoy driving at night, especially dark rural roads in pouring rain. I understand the enormous responsibility I bear, transporting those whom I dearly love and want to keep safe.
In truth, I long to be a passenger again, with no worries or pressures – just along for the ride, watching the moon and the world drift by, knowing I’m well-cared for.
But of course, I fret about the immense burden I feel to make things right in this dark and troubled world.
I am a passenger on a planet that has a Driver who feels great responsibility and care for all He transports through the black night of the universe. He loves me and I can rest content in the knowledge that I am safe in His vigilant hands.
I am not the driver – He knows how to safely bring me home, even in the rain.
I see the moon, it’s shining from far away, Beckoning with ev‘ry beam. And though all the start above cast down their light, Still the moon is all that I see And it’s calling out, “Come run a way! And we’ll sail with the clouds for our sea, And we’ll travel on through the black of the night, ‘til we float back home on a dream!” The moon approaches my window pane, stretching itself to the ground. The moon sings softly and laughs and smiles, and yet never makes a sound! I see the moon! I see the moon! Part A And it’s calling out, “Come run a way! And we’ll sail with the clouds for our sea, And we’ll travel on through the black of the night, ‘til we float back home on a dream!” Part B I see the moon, it’s shining from far away, Beckoning with ev‘ry beam. And though all the stars above cast down their light, Still the moon is all that I see ~Douglas Beam
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Begin the song exactly where you are, Remain within the world of which you’re made. Call nothing common in the earth or air, Accept it all and let it be for good.
Start with the very breath you breathe in now, This moment’s pulse, this rhythm in your blood And listen to it, ringing soft and low. Stay with the music, words will come in time.
Slow down your breathing. Keep it deep and slow. Become an open singing-bowl, whose chime Is richness rising out of emptiness, And timelessness resounding into time.
In the center of my chest, a kindling there in the hollow, as if a match had just been struck, or the blinds snapped up on a sealed room, gold suffusing the air, and through the wide windows, a solstice unfolding, mine for the lengthening days. ~Andrea Potts “On Reading John Donne for the First Time” from Her Joy Becomes
I will not forget, dear harvest moon, to keep you as my singing bowl where I can find your song months from now, even when your reflected light leaks out to tangle up in the weary trees of autumn.
Once the leaves fall, you illuminate even the most humble branches in their embarrassed nakedness.
Call nothing common in the earth or air, Accept it all and let it be for good.
When I too need your warm light in the center of my hollowed chest, I’ll know exactly where to find you, as you sing lullabies, waiting for me to empty.
I’ll not forget you, because you never forget to keep looking for me.
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At the edge of the city, at the edge of the world, at the edge between the earth and endless sky, the moonshining place, the place where we hung our long summer legs over the edge and fought the urge to drop a shoe or sneak a real first kiss, the place where we played hide-and-go-seek and Tag, you’re it! until we couldn’t breathe or the sun went down, the place where we came on the quietest nights to feel the moon kiss the edge between our skin and endless sky. ~Sarah Kobrinsky, from Nighttime on the Otherside of Everything
Once when we were playing hide-and-seek and it was time to go home, the rest gave up on the game before it was done and forgot I was still hiding. I remained hidden as a matter of honor until the moon rose. ~Galway Kinnell “Hide-and-Seek 1933” from Strong Is Your Hold.
Tomorrow there will be sun, scalloped by clouds, ushered in by a waterfall of birdsong. It will be a temperate seventy-five, low humidity. For twenty-four hours, all politicians will be silent. Reality programs will vanish from TV, replaced by the “snow” that used to decorate our screens when reception wasn’t working. Soldiers will toss their weapons in the grass. The oceans will stop their inexorable rise. No one will have to sit on a committee. When twilight falls, the aurora borealis will cut off cell phones, scramble the internet. We’ll play flashlight tag, hide and seek, decorate our hair with fireflies, spin until we’re dizzy, collapse on the dew-decked lawn and look up, perhaps for the first time, to read the long lines of cold code written in the stars…. ~Barbara Crooker “Tomorrow” from Some Glad Morning.
As a kid playing hide-n-seek, I always preferred to be the “seeker” as I was secretly afraid if I hid, I would be forgotten, everyone would go home and I wouldn’t be found.
Even so, I was too proud to quit the game and come out of hiding. Of course that never happened in real life. I was really lousy at hiding.
When I got older, I was no better at hiding, though I tried. God would always locate me, even without sending the tell-tale spotlight of the moon to find me.
I gave up hiding long ago. Once found, there is no point in trying to disappear from His sight.
His eye shines bright upon us all.
photo of supermoon by Harry Rodenbergerphoto of supermoon by Bob Tjoelker
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I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or paring of paradisaïcal fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless, Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain; A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quit utterly. This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins “Moonrise”June 19, 1876
how you can never reach it, no matter how hard you try, walking as fast as you can, but getting nowhere, arms and legs pumping, sweat drizzling in rivulets; each year, a little slower, more creaks and aches, less breath. Ah, but these soft nights, air like a warm bath, the dusky wings of bats careening crazily overhead, and you’d think the road goes on forever. Apollinaire wrote, “What isn’t given to love is so much wasted,” and I wonder what I haven’t given yet. A thin comma moon rises orange, a skinny slice of melon, so delicious I could drown in its sweetness. Or eat the whole thing, down to the rind. Always, this hunger for more. ~Barbara Crooker “How the Trees on Summer Nights Turn into a Dark River,” from More
The secret of seeing is, then the pearl of great price. If I thought he could teach me to find it and keep it forever I would stagger barefoot across a hundred deserts after any lunatic at all. But although the pearl may be found, it may not be sought.
The literature of illumination reveals this above all: although it comes to those who wait for it, it is always, even to the most practiced and adept, a gift and a total surprise.
I return from one walk knowing where the killdeer nests in the field by the creek and the hour the laurel blooms. I return from the same walk a day later scarcely knowing my own name.
Litanies hum in my ears; my tongue flaps in my mouth. Ailinon, alleluia! ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
The greatest gift is the one I stumble upon rather than having desired, sought out, fought for. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m missing, so oblivious to being surrounded by hidden treasures.
Surprise me, dear Lord.
Though I regularly lament in the shadows, though I try to hide under the blankets each morning, slumbering through the tragic, the painful, the sorrow, you send your gentle crescent light to awaken me.
So I lift my voice in praise and gratitude for your unexpected gift that I didn’t know I needed, would never had thought to seek, the pearl of great priceheld out for me to take each day.
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When the moon scrapes past obscuring clouds, there is the startle of pale-yellow light escaping the sky onto the pasture, where I walk my two young whippets in early spring listening to chorus frogs shamelessly seeking mates in the marsh-ponds spring rain has become in my back pasture. And then coyotes too on the far hill startling the dogs with their turbulent yips joining the necessary summoning for more of this tipping into spring, night-ascending prayers to the moon and watching stars. But the moonlight’s caught sounds of fecundity are deceiving—cold north wind needles my cheeks, embraces my earlobes despite the upturned hood on my too-thin jacket. A light frost on pasture-grass licks against my winter chore boots. Despite the whetted signs and sounds of approaching spring, there is yet to be early crocus, daffodils filling the yard, or leaves on the maple trees that will later shade the pigs in summer now shivering in the night’s transition in the barnyard. ~Ed Higgins, “Transitions” from Near Truth Only
Only another day until the spring equinox.
I confess to being impatient to transition away from winter, although we had snow and hail only a few days ago, our mornings are chilly with cold north breezes and our nights leave frosty icing on the barn roofs.
Even so, all the signs are there: the marsh frogs have been chorusing for nearly a month, coyotes are yipping it up, the pastures show a hint of green, early plum trees have broken open their tiny blossoms, crocus and daffodils have erupted in cheer and hope.
Some seasonal and life transitions are welcome. Some not at all. Some take my breath away. One won’t give my breath back.
Whatever we face in this life, we will face it together, knowing the arms of God surround us when we’re weary, when we’re ill, when we’re discouraged.
His love is a sentinel beacon welcoming us home.
He is the constant when all else is in transition.
photo by Bob Tjoelker of our sentinel tree
Let nothing disturb thee, Nothing affright thee; All things are passing; God never changeth; Patient endurance attaineth to all things; Who God possesseth in nothing is wanting; Alone God sufficeth. – St. Teresa of Avila“Prayer”
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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