Like You Don’t Belong Here

For grace to be grace,
it must give us things we didn’t know we needed
and take us places where we didn’t know we didn’t want to go.

As we stumble through the crazily altered landscape of our lives, we find that God is enjoying our attention as never before.
~Kathleen Norris
from Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer’s Life

It happens in an instant.
My grandma used to say
someone is walking on your grave.


It’s that moment when your life
is suddenly strange to you
as someone else’s coat


you have slipped on at a party
by accident, and it is far
too big or too tight for you.


Your life feels awkward, ill
fitting. You remember why you
came into this kitchen, but you

feel you don’t belong here.
It scares you in a remote
numb way. You fear that you—

whatever you means, this mind,
this entity stuck into a name
like mercury dropped into water—


have lost the ability to enter your
self, a key that no longer works.
Perhaps you will be locked

out here forever peering in
at your body, if that self is really
what you are. If you are at all.

~Marge Piercy “Dislocation” from The Crooked Inheritance

This Self—Hispanic, Latin, blond, black,
olive-skinned, native and immigrant—
dispersed far and wide
was here with everyone, yesterday and aga
in today;

I am large, I contain multitudes.
They will not manage to deny me or ignore me or declare me undocumented:
I am written in you, in all,
as all are in me

~Luis Alberto Ambroggio from We Are All Whitman: #2:Song of/to/My/Your/Self

Each of us a work of art,
heaven-sent,
called to reflect
on our own creation,
placed in this world to
feel grace
when we stumble,
unsure where we are to go,
who we are meant to be,
as if we don’t really belong here,
a feeling of jamais vu
when the familiar becomes strange.

This is who we are:
called to act out that grace –
to praise goodness,
to protest evil,
to grapple with reality,
to respond to injustice,
to change the direction we’re heading
fearing who we become if we don’t .

A traditional Catalan Song from Pablo Casals, a symbol of peace and freedom worldwide

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Where Spirit Meets the Bone

The mail truck goes down the coast
Carrying a single letter.
At the end of a long pier
The bored seagull lifts a leg now and then
And forgets to put it down.

There is a menace in the air
Of tragedies in the making.
Last night you thought you heard television
In the house next door.
You were sure it was some new
Horror they were reporting,
So you went out to find out.
Barefoot, wearing just shorts.
It was only the sea sounding weary
After so many lifetimes
Of pretending to be rushing off somewhere
And never getting anywhere
.

This morning, it felt like Sunday.
The heavens did their part
By casting no shadow along the boardwalk
Or the row of vacant cottages,
Among them a small church
With a dozen gray tombstones huddled close
As if they, too, had the shivers.
~Charles Simic “Late September” from The Voice at 3:00 a.m.: Selected Late and New Poems 

Have compassion for everyone you meet,
even if they don’t want it. What seems conceit, 

bad manners, or cynicism is always a sign 
of things no ears have heard, no eyes have seen.
You do not know what wars are going on
down there where the spirit meets the bone.

~Miller Williams “Compassion” from The Ways We Touch: Poems

Christians are called by God to be living
so sacrificially and beautifully that the people around us, 
who don’t believe what we believe,
will soon be unable to imagine the world without us.
~Pastor Tim Keller

As we walk this life of trouble and suffering,
this Jericho Road together,
we cannot pass by the brother, the sister, the child
who lies dying in the ditch.

We must stop and help.
We cannot turn away from others’ suffering.

By mere circumstances of our place of birth,
it could be you or me there
bleeding, beaten, abandoned
until Someone, journeying along that road,
comes looking for us.

He was sent to take our place,
as Substitution
so we can get up,
cared for, loved,
made whole again,
and walk Home.

Maranatha.

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Then Something Happened

There was only the dark infinity in which nothing was.
And something happened.
At the distance of a star something happened,
and everything began.
The Word did not come into being, but it was.
It did not break upon the silence,
but it was older than the silence
and the silence was made of it.
~N. Scott Momaday from “House Made of Dawn”

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

In the beginning was the Word, 
and the Word was with God, 
and the Word was God.  
He was with God in the beginning. 
Through him all things were made;
without him nothing was made that has been made. 
 In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. 
The light shines in the darkness, 
and the darkness has not overcome it.  
John 1

He was created of a mother whom He created.
He was carried by hands that He formed.
He cried in the manger in wordless infancy.
He the Word, without whom all human eloquence is mute.

~St. Augustine of Hippo

Will there really be a “Morning”?
Is there such a thing as “Day”?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like Water lilies?
Has it feathers like a Bird?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Men from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called “Morning” lies!

~Emily Dickinson

Something happened.

Something happened,
lighting the darkness and overcoming nothingness.

Something happened
and the story of the Beginning breathes within us.

Something happened
when God’s word broke the silence
as He spoke us into being.

Something happened
and it was the Morning of forever.

His Word was in the Beginning,
and always has been,
and always will be.

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Exposed to the Light of Day

The book sat on the table
for years
before it opened to a page
exposed to light
for the first time.

In their new surroundings
the words trembled
shaking all meaning
from their assembly,
the reader unable to enter.

Then the ink began to run
past the margins
to the mahogany to the floor,
random drops collecting themselves,
expanding from within.

The reader saw fit to stand
by the window,
following a cloud
till it stalled in front of the sun,
sweeping its passage along eyes closed.

As the sky proceeded
to draw the ink from the floor,
affixing the once-quivering words
to the slow-moving cloud,
the reader read the page in the dark.

And when the day’s shadows turned in
for the night
the book closed as it had opened
without a hand,
the reader calling it a day

of prayer.
~Howard Altmann “The Reader” from Infinite Sky Divided

Since childhood, I’ve imagined the books on my shelf having an internal life of their own, filled as they are with words and characters and plots and devices, contained in darkness between two covers until someone opens and reads.

Those words are freed, exposed to the light of day, to leak through the bindings or trickle down the pages to find new destinations. The stories morph, journeying on to who knows where.

Perhaps they drift to the ever-changing clouds that illuminate or darken the skies, depending upon their impact: some words of joy and some words of lament and sorrow.

Perhaps like closed books whose words are set free, when I pray, my words are liberated into the changing light to reach the ear of God.

And it is there my story is told, and He listens carefully to each word.

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Every Cubic Inch of Space

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk city streets,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love,
or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;


These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

Every spear of grass — the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,
and all that concerns them…


What stranger miracles are there?
~Walt Whitman from Leaves of Grass

Everywhere I turn, there is a miracle in the making. I know this deep in my bones, even when our days on this earth are short. I focus my camera to try to preserve it; I search for words to do it justice.

God touches every square inch of earth as if He owns the place, but these square inches are particularly marked by His artistry. It is a place to feel awed by His magnificence.

The strange miracle is that we are here at all: in an instant we are formed in all our unique potential, never having happened before and never to happen again—to become brain and heart and skin and arms and legs. We were allowed to be born, a miracle in itself in this modern age of conditional conception.

The strangest miracle of all is that we are still loved, corrupted as we are. We are still offered salvage, undeserving as we are. We are still gifted with the miracle of grace until our last breath.

How strange indeed. How utterly wondrous.

There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it.
~
Gustav Flaubert


There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!
~Abraham Kuyper

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The Bees of the Invisible

Let us go forward quietly,
forever making for the light,
and lifting up our hearts in the knowledge
that we are as others are
(and that others are as we are),
and that it is right to love one another
in the best possible way –
believing all things,
hoping for all things,
and enduring all things. 
~Vincent Van Gogh from a Letter to Theo Van Gogh – 3 April 1878

I have lived so long
On the cold hills alone . . .
I loved the rock
And the lean pine trees,
Hated the life in the turfy meadow,
Hated the heavy, sensuous bees.
I have lived so long
Under the high monotony of starry skies,
I am so cased about
With the clean wind and the cold nights,
People will not let me in
To their warm gardens
Full of bees.

~Janet Loxley Lewis “Austerity”


Everywhere transience is plunging into the depths of Being.
It is our task to imprint this temporary, perishable earth
into ourselves, so deeply, so painfully and passionately,
that its essence can rise again, invisible, inside of us.
We are the bees of the invisible.
We wildly collect the honey of the visible,
to store it in the great golden hive of the invisible.
~Rainier Maria Rilke in a letter to his friend Witold Hulewicz, 1925

I am convinced,
reading the news,
too many people are forced to survive
in a world cold and cruel,
without warmth or safety,
too many empty stomachs,
no healing hands for injury or disease.

Our country was trying to help
up until the last few months
when so much has been pulled away.

No longer are we, the helper bees, sent to the invisible,
bringing tangible hope and light, food and meds,
to those who have so little.

No longer do we bring collected honey
to the suffering, the ill, the poor and
invisible who share this planet.

Oh Lord, turn us away from such austerity.
Let us not forget how to share
the humming riches of Your warm garden.

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Making These Words More Than Words

This is another day, O Lord.
I know not what it will bring forth,
but make me ready, Lord,
for whatever it may be.
If I am to stand up,
help me to stand bravely.
If I am to sit still,
help me to sit quietly.
If I am to lie low,
help me to do it patiently.
And if I am to do nothing,
let me do it gallantly.
Make these words more than words,
and give me the Spirit of Jesus.
Amen.
~Book of Common Prayer

The world is overwhelmed with words coming from radio, TV, podcasts, books, magazines, social media or simply our own thoughts.

I feel barraged with what to think, how to think, who to believe, who not to believe, and why to risk thinking and believing at all.

I’m left desperate for a need for silence, just to quiet myself.
All I need is to know what I am to do with this new day,
how to best live this moment.

So I come to the Word, the only Word to think and believe.
It explains.
It responds.
It restores.
It refreshes.
It consoles.
It understands.
It embodies the Spirit I need far more than I need silence.

The words I seek to hear are far more than Words.
They are God Himself.

Amen
and again
Amen.

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Consider the Lilies…

Night after night
darkness
enters the face
of the lily
which, lightly,
closes its five walls
around itself,
and its purse
of honey,

and its fragrance,
and is content
to stand there
in the garden,
not quite sleeping,
and, maybe,
saying in lily language
some small words
we can’t hear
even when there is no wind
anywhere,
its lips
are so secret,
its tongue
is so hidden –
or, maybe,
it says nothing at all
but just stands there
with the patience
of vegetables
and saints
until the whole earth has turned around
and the silver moon
becomes the golden sun –
as the lily absolutely knew it would,
which is itself, isn’t it,
the perfect prayer?

~Mary Oliver “The Lily”

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. 
Matthew 6:28b-29

I have been thinking
about living
like the lilies
that blow in the fields.

They rise and fall
in the edge of the wind,
and have no shelter
from the tongues of the cattle,

and have no closets or cupboards,
and have no legs.
Still I would like to be
as wonderful

as the old idea.
But if I were a lily
I think I would wait all day
for the green face

of the hummingbird
to touch me.
What I mean is,
could I forget myself

even in those feathery fields?
When Van Gogh
preached to the poor
of course he wanted to save someone–

most of all himself.
He wasn’t a lily,
and wandering through the bright fields
only gave him more ideas

it would take his life to solve.
I think I will always be lonely
in this world, where the cattle
graze like a black and white river–

where the vanishing lilies
melt, without protest, on their tongues–
where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss,
just rises and floats away.

~Mary Oliver “Lilies”

photo by Josh Scholten

From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel and densest drama, literature is asking us to pay attention… pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein and thereby learn at last to pay attention to yourself and all that dwells therein.

Literature, painting, music—
the most basic lesson that all art teaches us
is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet,
including our own lives, as a vastly richer,
deeper, more mysterious business
as we bumble along from day to day on automatic pilot.
In a world that for the most part steers clear
of the whole idea of holiness, art is one of the few places left
where we can speak to each other of holy things.

Is it too much to say that Stop, Look, and Listen
is also the most basic lesson
that the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us?
Listen to history is the cry of the ancient prophets of Israel.
Listen to social injustice, says Amos;
to head-in-the-sand religiosity, says Jeremiah;
to international treacheries and power-plays, says Isaiah;
because it is precisely through them
that God speaks his word of judgment and command.

In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that
“Consider the lilies of the field”
was the only commandment she never broke.
She could have done a lot worse.
Consider the lilies.
It is the sine qua non of art and religion both.
~Frederick Buechner from Whistling in the Dark

I have failed to “consider the lilies” way too many times.

In my daily life, I am considering my own worries and concerns as I walk past beauty and purpose and holiness. My mind turns inward, often blind and deaf to what is outside me.

It is necessary to be reminded every day that I need to pay attention beyond myself, to love my neighbor, to remember what history has to teach us, to search for the sacred in all things.

Stop, Look, Listen, Consider:
all is grace,
all is gift,
all is holiness
brought to life – so stunning, so amazing, so wondrous.

Thank you to David and Lynne Nelson, David Vos of VanderGiessen Nursery, Arlene Van Ry, Tennant Lake Park and Western Washington University for making their lovely lilies available to me to photograph.

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Just a Pinch of God Inside

To be blessed
said the old woman
is to live and work
so hard
God’s love
washes right through you
like milk through a cow

To be blessed
said the dark red tulip
is to knock their eyes out
with the slug of lust
implied by
your up-ended
skirt

To be blessed
said the dog
is to have a pinch
of God
inside you
and all the other dogs
can smell it

~Alicia Suskin Ostriker “The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog” from The Book of Seventy

Some claim the origin of song
was a war cry
some say it was a rhyme
telling the farmers when to plant and reap
don’t they know the first song was a lullaby
pulled from a mother’s sleep
said the old woman


A significant
factor generating my delight in being
alive this springtime
is the birdsong
that like a sweeping mesh has captured me
like diamond rain I can’t
hear it enough said the tulip


Lifetime after lifetime
we surged up the hill
I and my dear brothers
thirsty for blood
uttering
our beautiful songs
said the dog

~Alicia Suskin Ostriker “Song” from The Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog

To be blessed is to know
God is inside all created things,
even those seemingly hopeless.

To be blessed is to sing
a lullaby of loving kindness
that settles a restless heart.

To be blessed is to become a blessing
so contagious, there is no hope of cure.

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Lyrics:
Oh! Hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us,
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,
Oh weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow swinging seas!
~Rudyard Kipling “The White Seal”

translated lyrics from the Lakota:
Ah I say, I say to you I am speaking to you…
Ah I say, I say to you To you I am saying it
My kind-hearted boy go to sleep
Tomorrow will be nice
I am speaking to you

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A Sentence That Changes Your Life

As we walk into words that have waited for us to enter them, so
the meadow, muddy with dreams, is gathering itself together

and trying, with difficulty, to remember how to make wildflowers.
Imperceptibly heaving with the old impatience, it knows

for certain that two horses walk upon it, weary of hay.
The horses, sway-backed and self important, cannot design

how the small white pony mysteriously escapes the fence everyday.
This is the miracle just beyond their heavy-headed grasp,

and they turn from his nuzzling with irritation. Everything
is crying out. Two crows, rising from the hill, fight

and caw-cry in mid-flight, then fall and light on the meadow grass
bewildered by their weight. A dozen wasps drone, tiny prop planes,

sputtering into a field the farmer has not yet plowed,
and what I thought was a phone, turned down and ringing,

is the knock of a woodpecker for food or warning, I can’t say.
I want to add my cry to those who would speak for the sound alone.

But in this world, where something is always listening, even
murmuring has meaning, as in the next room you moan

in your sleep, turning into late morning. My love, this might be
all we know of forgiveness, this small time when you can forget

what you are. There will come a day when the meadow will think
suddenly, water, root, blossom, through no fault of its own,
and the horses will lie down in daisies and clover. Bedeviled,
human, your plight, in waking, is to choose from the words

that even now sleep on your tongue, and to know that tangled
among them and terribly new is the sentence that could change your life.

~Marie Howe “The Meadow” from The Good Thief

I am constantly looking for the sentence that will change my life.

I search high and low:
in books, on tape, in sermons,
and in everyday conversation.

I listen.

I realize it will not be a brand new revelation.
Instead, it is a very very old sentence:

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”
John 8:12

I look for the Light in the most unexpected places, and if I find it, I always try to share it here…

What is a sentence that has changed your life?

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