For the bark, dulled argent, roundly wrapped And pigeon-collared.
For the splitter-splatter, guttering Rain-flirt leaves.
For the snub and clot of the first green cones, Smelted emerald, chlorophyll.
For the scut and scat of cones in winter, So rattle-skinned, so fossil-brittle.
For the alder-wood, flame-red when torn Branch from branch.
But mostly for the swinging locks Of yellow catkins.
Plant it, plant it, Streel-head in the rain. ~Seamus Heaney “Planting the Alder”with an explanation of some of the poet’s poetic words here
Alder catkin, weightless as down, only blow it away and all changes utterly, and life, it appears, is not such a trifling matter, when nothing about it seems merely a trifle. …an alder catkin lies in my palm, and quivers, as if living.. ~Yevgeny Yevtushenko from “Alder Catkin” translated by Arthur Boyars and Simon Franklin
The alder tree branches are still winter-naked as their catkins start to emerge, other-worldly in appearance.
The swinging catkins search out every breeze to spread pollen as far as possible, engaging in serious alder-production business. It’s effective, as annually our pastures fill with baby alder trees, eager to form their own dense community in the wet ground of our lowlands.
In its desire to dominate the woodlands and allergies here in the northwest, the alder catkin is nothing to trifle with. Though we don’t want a field full of them, I can’t help but admire them this time of year for their bold color and knobby texture, reminiscent of the upholstery of my family’s well-loved 1950’s davenport sofa which converted to a bed for sick kids or visiting cousins.
Another world, another life-time full of dreams…
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Now the green blade riseth, from the buried grain, Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain; Love lives again, that with the dead has been: Love is come again like wheat that springeth green.
When our hearts are wintry, grieving, or in pain, Jesus’ touch can call us back to life again, Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been: Love is come again like wheat that springeth green. ~ John Macleod Campbell Crum – two stanzas from “Now the Green Blade Riseth”
…times of dormancy and deep rest are essential to all living things. Despite all appearances, of course, nature is not dead in winter– it has gone underground to renew itself and prepare for spring. Winter is a time when we are admonished, and even inclined, to do the same for ourselves.
Our inward winters take many forms–failure, betrayal, depression, death. But every one of them, in my experience, yields to the same advice: “The winters will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them.” Until we enter boldly into the fears we most want to avoid, those fears will dominate our lives. But when we walk directly into them–protected from frostbite by the warm garb of friendship or inner discipline or spiritual guidance–we can learn what they have to teach us. Then, we discover once again that the cycle of the seasons is trustworthy and life-giving, even in winter, the most dismaying season of all. ~Parker Palmer from Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation
Why did “Let It Go” from the Disney movie “Frozen” resonate as a universal pop anthem some ten years ago?
Maybe we needed the call to emerge from our dormancy, to reach out in our God-given ability to overcome challenges, despite everything the outward and inward winters blow at us.
I trust, from all I’ve learned in His Word — I have only gone underground temporarily and will soon emerge restored in renewal.
The cold never bothered me anyway? Yes, of course it did, but it is not the end of my story.
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I alternate between thinking of the planet as home – dear and familiar stone hearth and garden – and as a hard land of exile in which we are all sojourners. ~Annie Dillard from Teaching a Stone To Talk
We all long for Eden, and we are constantly glimpsing it: our whole nature at its best and least corrupted, its gentlest and most human, is still soaked with the sense of exile. ~J.R.R. Tolkien, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien
Wraiths of mist suddenly moving like serpents of the air would coil about them for a second. Grey damp would be around them, and the sun, a copper penny, would fade away. The wings next to their own wings would shade into vacancy, until each bird was a lonely sound in cold annihilation, a presence after uncertain. And there they would hang in chartless nothing, seemingly without speed or left or right or top or bottom, until as suddenly as ever the copper penny glowed and the serpents writhed. Then, in a moment of time, they would be in the jewelled world once more: a sea under them like turquoise and all the gorgeous palaces of heaven new created, with the dew of Eden not yet dry. ~T.H. White from The Once and Future King
The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves. He will take great delight in you; in his love he will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing. I will rescue the lame; I will gather the exiles. I will give them praise and honor in every land where they have suffered shame. At that time I will gather you; at that time I will bring you home. Zephaniah 3: 17, 19-20
I, like everyone on this earth, am only a sojourner, seemingly settled, yet certainly not lasting. As a garden flourishes in the dew and then dies back, so will I.
This is exile in the wilderness until we are taken back home. He has sent His Son to fetch us.
Home. Really home. A place of no fading or withering.
Each of us etched on His heart, created in His image, held fast in His Hand, and led back home.
Lyrics:
The barren land around me lies My flame is burning low Cold and pale the winter skies And I am far from home. With my light that burns so dim, Am I visible to Him? Does He hear the fragile song of creatures here below?
He wakes the lark and bids her fly To greet the coming spring, Wakes our hearts and bids us rise Then gives our spirits wing. He speaks, and winter melts away, Hears us when we come to pray, Turns our nighttime into day – Our Light, our Life, our King.
Glorious joy of summer sun, The gentle healing rain, Banishing our tears and sighs, With beauty for our pain. Earth and sky, lay glory by- Christ the Lord is drawing nigh! All creation, bow to Him From whom all blessings flow!
Blows the wind, and soon will come The autumn of the year With its golden light of love Still shining ever clear. From the rising of the sun To the place where day is done, Peace on earth has now begun To cast away our fear. -Johanna Anderson, 2018
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Yes, I know my mind is a fickle little bee doting on a thousand thoughts, but I’m getting better at chasing my mind back to the moment
so I can see the spiderwebs making hammocks the color of the moon. My son tries to photograph a rainbow outside the car window. It’s impossible,
of course, this wonder, the trying to hold it. But I do what I can. I’ve stopped waiting to enjoy the cinnamon tea. I take deeper breaths and listen
to the flutter of strings floating down from café speakers. I don’t want to be a pilgrim of memory anymore. I want to pop the champagne and salute
this now, and this one with soft brie, dried apricots, and the sunset celebration another anniversary of light while I eat fists of grapes the same shade
and sweetness of night. Congratulations, Time. Look at you and your gorgeous minutes full of everything. Three cheers for the temp agency that hired this
particular day, these particular clouds, this set of honking geese migrating through it. I want to be better at being alive, so I’ve been picturing my heart
as a fox—which means wild and nocturnal, not terrorizing the neighbor’s chickens. My love says most equations in quantum field theory give infinity
as an answer, which is not meaningful because all infinities are the same. In that case, let’s stop reaching so hard for it. I’ll take this infinity’s morning where
my son and I confused falling leaves for monarchs. Every time we thought we saw a butterfly, it was just a leaf with the gentlest falling. We laughed at
every mistake, and he said, That was a beautiful confusion. Sometimes when the moment doesn’t offer a praying mantis on the porch or a charismatic sky,
I imagine my heart is my son’s face, and I am back in love with the day, its astonishments like hot-air balloons, and the daily present of power lines strung
with starlings like dozens of music notes. Let me be more bound to my living in each moment, be held by this hum, that cloud, this breath, that shroud. ~Traci Brimhall “This Beautiful Confusion” from Love Prodigal
Some Monday mornings, my mind is going in a thousand different directions. So I follow, knowing there will never be another Monday morning quite like this one. I hope there will be a few hundred more Monday mornings to come.
I want to be better at being alive, noticing, remembering, connecting, and grateful to be breathing.
Perhaps you are here because — you do too…
our sons – 1990
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Just then his disciples returned and were surprised to find him talking with a woman. But no one asked, “What do you want?” or “Why are you talking with her?”
Then, leaving her water jar, the woman went back to the town and said to the people, “Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Messiah?” They came out of the town and made their way toward him. John 4:27-30
The woman is isolated and shunned by her community, which is why she comes to the well at noon and not in the cool of the morning or evening with the other women. She sees nothing but problems and barriers at first: the divisions of race and religion, the practical problem of the deep well, of having no buckets — and then the living presence of Jesus changes everything.
We see him through the icon, with one hand on his heart, the other on the water, himself the living connection between the two. Gazing at the icon, we see that the living water is already at the brim of the well. Has his presence drawn it up from the depths, or is it in fact flowing from him into the well, and not the other way round? Certainly, everything is reversed for the woman, and she who had to walk away from her village to find an outer source of refreshment will soon herself be a centre of renewal and be spreading good news in community. ~Malcolm Guite “Poet’s Corner” from Church Times
Some ask the world and are diminished in the receiving of it. You gave me only this small pool that the more I drink from, the more overflows me with sourceless light. ~ R. S. Thomas “Gift” from Experimenting with an Amen
..my heart leaps in wonder. Cold, fresh, deep, I feel the word water spelled in my left palm… opening the doors of the world… ~Denise Levertov from “The Well”
I approach the well with shame, in the heat of the day, not wanting to speak or be spoken to…
Yet this man, waiting there, asks for water asks for my help asks, despite of who I am and what I have done.
Then he offers to me what I could not give him: knowing my life and my shame he opens the door to the rest of my life, having no more thirst.
Could this be?
My heart leaping in wonder, now I must tell everyone I know…
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.
A dishwater sky mutes sun’s rays to gray, the hills leading to the pass forested in haze, drained of green. Though a steady bluster, the wind musters nothing but silence. The plodding sound of melt drip, drip, drips from the askew rusted rain gutter outside my purview. Perhaps, I have all my life been too much in love with sadness. ~Lana Hectman Ayers from “Window in Late January” from Autobiography of Rain
A silence slipping around like death, Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath, One group of trees, lean, naked and cold, Inking their crest ‘gainst a sky green-gold, One path that knows where the corn flowers were; Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir; And over it softly leaning down, One star that I loved ere the fields went brown. ~Angelina Weld Grimke “A Winter Twilight”
I am astonished by my thirst for clinging to sadness when a gray day asks so little of me.
Good thing I’m shaken from my melancholy by such simple moments as a twilight shimmering gold, a burst of unexpected evening birdsong, a steadfast fir standing unyielding on our hilltop, where it glimpses the edge of tomorrow as today’s dusky horizon fades away.
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Don’t worry, spider, I keep house casually. ~Kobayashi Issa (translation by Robert Hass)
There’s a web like a spider’s web, Made of silk and light and shadows, Spun by the moon in my room at night. It’s a web made to catch a dream, Hold it tight ’til I awaken, As if to tell me, my dream is all right. ~Lyrics of Spider’s Web Folk Song (see below)
You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing. I wove my webs for you because I liked you. After all, what’s a life, anyway? We’re born, we live a little while, we die. A spider’s life can’t help being something of a mess, with all this trapping and eating flies. By helping you, perhaps I was trying to lift up my life a trifle. Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that. ~E. B. White, from Charlotte’s Web
In cool descent and loyal hearted, She spins a ladder to the place From where she started.
Thus I, gone forth as spiders do In spider’s web a truth discerning, Attach one silken thread to you For my returning. ~E.B. White from “Natural History”
Silk-thin silver strings woven cleverly into a lair, An intricate entwining of divinest thread… Like strands of magic worked upon the air, The spider spins his enchanted web – His home so eerily, spiraling spreads.
His gossamer so rigid, yet lighter than mist, And like an eight-legged sorcerer – a wizard blest, His lace, like a spell, he conjures and knits; I witnessed such wild ingenuity wrought and finessed, Watching the spider weave a dream from his web. ~Jonathan Platt“A Spider’s Web”
…humanity is like an enormous spider web, so that if you touch it anywhere, you set the whole thing trembling…
As we move around this world and as we act with kindness, perhaps, or with indifference, or with hostility, toward the people we meet, we too are setting the great spider web a-tremble. The life that I touch for good or ill will touch another life, and that in turn another, until who knows where the trembling stops or in what far place and time my touch will be felt.
Our lives are linked together. No man is an island. ~Frederick Buechner from The Hungering Dark
I’ve had a new friend for several months now, beginning in late fall and into winter. She lives in our bathroom, in a terraced silken network between the cabinet and the back of the toilet.
This is someone with only one request: we leave her home undisturbed during our brief visits.
And so I have. Normally I would be brushing visible cobwebs down in my quick cleans, but when I noticed this co-habiter back in November as the weather got chilly, I couldn’t help but think “Charlotte” and the ordinary miracles of creatures like her.
So there she stays as I await a profound web message from her.
Instead of messages, she is extending her network in the hope of catching what little insect life there is in a winter house. Her web does get some misting when we shower or bathe, so she has the moisture she needs to thrive. She goes on reconnaissance missions of her little tiled kingdom — there are small webs laced into most of the corners, above the tub and behind the door.
I really can’t see that she eats often; my research says she doesn’t need much. So we will co-exist as long as she wants to stay, although when spring comes, I know a front porch bench that will be a far better source of regular meals. And then I can do a little deeper clean of the crevices in the bathroom.
I hope she might agree to move on at that point. That is, unless she writes me a web message asking to stay “linked in.”
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If you read the fine print it clearly states that everything is grace. Under figure 3A the description reads This breath, in fact, is a gift. And further down: This body, you’ve no doubt observed, will go away. This flesh has a shelf-life. One footnote says, As a best case, the body will last a century. Though it more commonly fails between seven and eight decades into use.*
There is a haunted asterisk on that fact.
*Sometimes, for no reason found in this book, the body fails sooner. After only days or months or too few orbits around the sun, through sudden impact or subtle violence of disease, a lifespan is condensed dramatically. We cannot find an explanation, as noted above.
At the end of the chapter is a summary with discussion questions for further examination:
We don’t get forever. We are not entitled to years. We may get one hundred. We may not. There is no reason for this. There is nothing to fear.
What does this have to do with the reality of a sunrise peeking through the blinds? How does this impact the crisp sweetness of a crimson apple in autumn? Which is greater: poetry or success? What is heavier: despair or the tiny hairs on the surface of a raspberry? What is enough: this moment or the sound of the dog breathing deeply in the chair across the room? ~Connor Gwin “The Fine Print”
The main thing is this– when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning. Then talk softly to your heart, don’t yell. Say anything but be respectful. Say–maybe say, Heart, little heart, beat softly but never forget your job, the blood. You can whisper also, Remember, remember. ~Grace Paley from “The Art of Growing Older” in Just As I Thought
A year ago this week, I was recovering from a prolonged bout of bronchitis and felt my chest was sore when I went out to do my barn chores in the cold winter air. Only it wasn’t because of my persistent cough that my chest hurt.
It was my heart, but I was not listening to it. I was not holding it gently enough and it let me know.
After a year of living with the knowledge that I have a limited shelf life, extended by the emergency placement of two coronary artery stents, I’m much more respectful with my heart. I’m treating it more kindly now that I know it was showing some wear and tear.
Cardiac rehab followed by medically-monitored exercise continues to help. Blood pressure meds, statins, blood thinners help. Weight loss always helps. I can do my barn chores in cold winter air without my chest hurting.
I’ve gained a new awareness of how everything I took for granted is no longer a given. Every breath is a gift. Every sunrise and sunset is a gift. Encouragement and prayer from my family, friends, church and readers around the world especially helps.
I’ve had an extension on my warranty for now after a stunning repair. My heart won’t forget, and never again will I.
God, in fine print, reminds me regularly: everything is grace – there is nothing to fear.
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Eighteen years ago this week, a college student was brought to our university health clinic by his concerned roommates, as he seemed to be getting sicker with that winter’s seasonal influenza. His family gave permission for his story to be told.
Nothing was helping. Everything had been tried for a week of the most intensive critical care possible. A twenty year old man – completely healthy only two weeks previously – was dying and nothing could stop it.
The battle against a sudden MRSA (Methicillin Resistant Staph Aureus) pneumonia precipitated by a routine seasonal influenza infection had been lost. Despite aggressive hemodynamic, antibiotic, antiviral and ventilator management, he was becoming more hypoxic and his renal function was deteriorating. He was no longer responsive to stimuli.
The intensivist looked weary and defeated. The nurses were staring at their laps, unable to look up, their eyes tearing. The hospital chaplain reached out to hold this young man’s mother’s shaking hands.
After a week of heroic effort and treatment, there was now clarity about the next step.
Two hours later, a group gathered in the waiting room outside the ICU doors. The average age was about 21; they assisted each other in tying on the gowns over their clothing, distributed gloves and masks. Together, holding each other up, they waited for the signal to gather in his room after the ventilator had been removed and he was breathing without assistance. They entered and gathered around his bed.
He was ravaged by this sudden illness, his strong body beaten and giving up. His breathing was now ragged and irregular, sedation preventing response but not necessarily preventing awareness. He was surrounded by silence as each individual who had known and loved him struggled with the knowledge that this was the final goodbye.
His father approached the head of the bed and put his hands on his boy’s forehead and cheek. He held this young man’s face tenderly, bowing in silent prayer and then murmuring words of comfort:
It is okay to let go. It is okay to leave us now. We will see you again. We’ll meet again. We’ll know where you will be.
His mother stood alongside, rubbing her son’s arms, gazing into his face as he slowly slowly slipped away. His father began humming, indistinguishable notes initially, just low sounds coming from a deep well of anguish and loss.
As the son’s breaths spaced farther apart, his dad’s hummed song became recognizable as the hymn of praise by John Newton, Amazing Grace. The words started to form around the notes. At first his dad was singing alone, giving this gift to his son as he passed, and then his mom joined in as well. His sisters wept. His friends didn’t know all the words but tried to sing through their tears. The chaplain helped when we stumbled, not knowing if we were getting it right, not ever having done anything like this before.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, That saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, Was blind, but now I see.
Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come; ‘Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far and Grace will lead me home.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail, And mortal life shall cease, I shall possess within the veil, A life of joy and peace.
When we’ve been here ten thousand years Bright shining as the sun. We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise Than when we’ve first begun.
And he left us.
His mom hugged each sobbing person there–the young friends, the nurses, the doctors humbled by powerful pathogens. She thanked each one for being present for his death, for their vigil kept through the week in the hospital as his flesh and heart had failed.
This young man, now lost to this mortal life, had profoundly touched people in a way he could not have ever predicted or expected. His parents’ grief, so gracious and giving to the young people who had never confronted death before, remains unforgettable.
This was their sacred gift to their son – so Grace could lead him home.
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Now when Jesus learned that the Pharisees had heard that Jesus was making and baptizing more disciples than John (although Jesus himself did not baptize, but only his disciples),he left Judea and departed again for Galilee.
And he had to pass through Samaria. So he came to a town of Samaria called Sychar, near the field that Jacob had given to his son Joseph.Jacob’s well was there; so Jesus, wearied as he was from his journey, was sitting beside the well. It was about the sixth hour.
A woman from Samaria came to draw water. Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” (For his disciples had gone away into the city to buy food.) The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” (For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.)
Jesus answered her, “If you knew the gift of God, and who it is that is saying to you, ‘Give me a drink,’ you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water.” The woman said to him, “Sir, you have nothing to draw water with, and the well is deep. Where do you get that living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob? He gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did his sons and his livestock.”
Jesus said to her, “Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again,but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him will never be thirsty again. The water that I will give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”The woman said to him, “Sir, give me this water, so that I will not be thirsty or have to come here to draw water.”
Jesus said to her, “Go, call your husband, and come here.”The woman answered him, “I have no husband.” Jesus said to her, “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; for you have had five husbands, and the one you now have is not your husband. What you have said is true.”The woman said to him, “Sir, I perceive that you are a prophet. 20 Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you say that in Jerusalem is the place where people ought to worship.”
Jesus said to her, “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem will you worship the Father.You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews.But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father is seeking such people to worship him.God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.”
The woman said to him, “I know that Messiah is coming (he who is called Christ). When he comes, he will tell us all things.”
Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am he.” John 4: 1-26
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs Always wrong to the light, so never seeing Deeper down in the well than where the water Gives me back in a shining surface picture Me myself in the summer heaven godlike Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs. Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb, I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture, Through the picture, a something white, uncertain, Something more of the depths—and then I lost it. Water came to rebuke the too clear water. One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom, Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness? Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something. ~Robert Frost “For Once Then Something”
Recently, we tried having a new well dug on our farm after our well water became discolored and undrinkable after a week of very heavy rains.
It is a very deep decades-old well with a protective casing that was failing. The well diggers tried to hit water in the same aquifer only a few yards from the original well – yet, despite drilling even deeper, the hole remained dry. Our effort at fresh water was futile. Instead, with no other affordable options, we did what we could to repair the original well, hoping to give it new life, along with a robust filtration system so we would have fresh water.
We are a worshiping people who peer into a well hole, expecting it to deliver what we need, when we need it. We end up worshiping our own distorted reflection, rather than what is needed to sustain life. We are lost, only looking deep into the depths of the ground, rather than seeking the depths of spirit and truth.
When we admit our own blindness and need for rescue, we are promised living water to quench our never-ending thirst.
Instead of “for once then something,” we are given “forever, now, salvation.”
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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