… Maybe they have no place to return or are lost, having gone too far from the nest.
Female bees will also burrow deep inside the shade of a squash flower: the closer to the source of nectar, the warmer and more quilt-like the air. In the cool hours of morning, look closely for the slight but tell-tale trembling in each flower cup: there, a body dropped mid-flight, mid-thought. How we all retreat behind some folded screen as work or the world presses in too soon, too close, too much. ~Luisa Igloria from “Ode to Tired Bumblebees Who Fall Asleep Inside Flowers With Pollen on Their Butts”
How can I love this spring when it’s pulling me through my life faster than any time before it? When five separate dooms are promised this decade and here I am, just trying to watch a bumblebee cling to its first purple flower. I cannot save this world. But look how it’s trying, once again, to save me. ~James Pearson “This Spring”
It isn’t unusual to find a bumblebee clinging to a spring blossom, all covered in morning dew, having overstayed its welcome as the evening chill hit the night before.
The bumble is too cold to fly, or think, or navigate. Instead it just clings through the night until the sun rises and the air once again warms its wings.
Maybe it got lost. Maybe it is simply weary from flying with such tiny wings. Maybe it has no home to retreat to in the darkness. Maybe it only wants to cling tight to beauty in a dangerous world.
I’ve known what this feels like, dear plump fluffy bumble. I think I know how you feel, patiently waiting for the descent of Love to revive my spirit and warm my wings…
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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‘Verily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself.’ is. xlv. 15.
God, though to Thee our psalm we raise No answering voice comes from the skies; To Thee the trembling sinner prays But no forgiving voice replies; Our prayer seems lost in desert ways, Our hymn in the vast silence dies.
We see the glories of the earth But not the hand that wrought them all: Night to a myriad worlds gives birth, Yet like a lighted empty hall Where stands no host or door or hearth Vacant creation’s lamps appal.
We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King, With attributes we deem are meet; Each in his own imagining Sets up a shadow in Thy seat; Yet know not how our gifts to bring, Where seek thee with unsandalled feet.
And still th’unbroken silence broods While ages and while aeons run, As erst upon chaotic floods The Spirit hovered ere the sun Had called the seasons’ changeful moods And life’s first germs from death had won.
And still th’abysses infinite Surround the peak from which we gaze. Deep calls to deep and blackest night Giddies the soul with blinding daze That dares to cast its searching sight On being’s dread and vacant maze.
And Thou art silent, whilst Thy world Contends about its many creeds And hosts confront with flags unfurled And zeal is flushed and pity bleeds And truth is heard, with tears impearled, A moaning voice among the reeds.
My hand upon my lips I lay; The breast’s desponding sob I quell; I move along life’s tomb-decked way And listen to the passing bell Summoning men from speechless day To death’s more silent, darker spell.
Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond, To shew Thee that Thou art, and near, Let patience with her chastening wand Dispel the doubt and dry the tear; And lead me child-like by the hand; If still in darkness not in fear.
Speak! whisper to my watching heart One word—as when a mother speaks Soft, when she sees her infant start, Till dimpled joy steals o’er its cheeks. Then, to behold Thee as Thou art, I’ll wait till morn eternal breaks. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins “Nondum (Not Yet)”
There is great darkness right now in our country’s leadership, spilling shadows over the rest of the world.
Each day brings a new proclamation of presumed earthly power, exacting great cost to those who are most vulnerable and powerless.
Though it may seem God is silent, He is not.
God broods, as do parents who protect their offspring. He hears the cries of His people who are harmed and helpless. He will respond, and His children understand we are still in the “not yet” of His kingdom on earth, and we wait for His return to set all things right.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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I wanted to treat feelings that are not recognized as afflictions and are never diagnosed by doctors. All those little feelings and emotions no therapist is interested in, because they are apparently too minor and intangible. The feeling that washes over you when another summer nears its end. Or when you recognize that you haven’t got your whole life left to find out where you belong. Or the slight sense of grief when a friendship doesn’t develop as you thought, and you have to continue your search for a lifelong companion. Or those birthday morning blues. Nostalgia for the air of your childhood. Things like that. ~Nina George from The Little Paris Bookshop
Are you so weary? Come to the window; Lean, and look at this — Something swift runs under the grass With a little hiss . . .
Now you see it ripping off, Reckless, under the fence. Are you so tired? Unfasten your mind, And follow it hence. ~Mark Van Doren “Wind in the Grass”
A white vase holds a kaleidoscope of wilting sweet peas captive in the sunlight on the kitchen table while
wafting morning scent of pancakes with sticky maple syrup swirls on the plate,
down the hall a dirty diaper left too long in the pail, spills over tempera paint pots with brushes rinsed in jars after
stroking bright pastel butterflies fluttering on an easel while wearing dad’s oversized shirt buttoned backwards
as he gently guides a hand beneath the downy underside of the muttering hen reaching a warm egg hiding in the nest
broken into fragments like a heart while reading the last stanza of “Dover Beach” in freshman English
Just down the hall of clanging lockers To orchestra where strains of “Clair de Lune” accompany
the yearning midnight nipple tug of a baby’s hungry suck hiccups gulping in rhythm to the rocking rocking
waiting for a last gasp for breath through gaping mouth, mottled cooling skin
lies still between bleached sheets illuminated by curtain filtered moonlight just visible
through the treetops while whoosh of owl wings are felt not heard, sensed not seen.
Waking to bright lights and whirring machines the hushed voice of the surgeon asking
what do you see now, what can you hear, what odor, what flavor, what sensation on your skin
with each probe of temporal lobe, of fornix and amygdala hidden deep in gray matter
of neurons and synaptic holding bins of chemical transmitters storing the mixed bag of the past and present
to find and remove the offending lesion that seizes up all remembrance, all awareness
and be set free again to live, to love, to swoon at the perfume of spring sweet peas climbing dew fresh at dawn,
tendril wrapping over tendril, the peeling wall of the garden shed
no more regrets, no more grief no more sorrow.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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I think there is no suffering greater than what is caused by the doubts of those who want to believe. I know what torment this is, but I can only see it, in myself anyway, as the process by which faith is deepened. What people don’t realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross. It is much harder to believe than not to believe. If you feel you can’t believe, you must at least do this: keep an open mind. Keep it open toward faith, keep wanting it, keep asking for it, and leave the rest to God. ~Flannery O’Connor from The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O’Connor
And those are called blessed who make the effort to remain open-hearted. Nothing that comes from God, even the greatest miracle, can be proven like 2 x 2 = 4. It touches one; it is only seen and grasped when the heart is open and the spirit purged of self. Then it awakens faith.
… the heart is not overcome by faith, there is no force or violence there, compelling belief by rigid certitudes. What comes from God touches gently, comes quietly; does not disturb freedom; leads to quiet, profound, peaceful resolve within the heart. ~Romano Guardini from The Living God
On my doubting days, days too frequent and tormenting, I remember the risen Christ reaching out to place Thomas’s hand in His wounds, gently guiding Thomas to His reality, so it then becomes Thomas’s reality. His open wounds called to Thomas’s mind and heart, and to mine, His flesh and blood awakening a hidden faith by a simple touch.
Leave it to God to know how to reach the unreachable.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse, Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best, Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest, The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,
Church-bels beyond the stars heard, the souls bloud, The land of spices, something understood. ~George Herbert from “Prayer I”
Breathe in me, O Holy Spirit, that my thoughts may be holy. Act in me, O Holy Spirit, that my work, too, may be holy. Draw my heart, O Holy Spirit, that I love but what is holy. Strengthen me, O Holy Spirit, to defend all that is holy. Guard me, then, O Holy Spirit, that I always may be holy. ~Augustine prayer
Considering the distance between us and God, what seems insurmountable to overcome, how amazing it only takes a few words to Him, our pleas and praise, our breath in His ear, when, unhesitating He plummets to us; we are lifted to Him.
Heaven richly dwells in the ordinary.
The plainness in our prayers is the desire to be known, to be fully understood, to be loved by the One who is our Creator, making us extraordinary.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day. Whathours, O what black hours we have spent This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went! And moremust, in yet longer light’s delay.
With witness I speak this. But where I say Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent To dearest him that lives alas! away.
I am gall, I am heartburn. God’s most deep decree Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me; Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see The lost are like this, and their scourge to be As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins “I wake and feel the fell of dark”
Surfacing to the street from a thirty two hour hospital shift usually means my eyes blink mole-like, adjusting to searing daylight after being too long in darkened windowless halls. This particular January day is different. As the doors open, I am immersed in a subdued gray Seattle afternoon, with horizontal rain soaking my scrubs.
Finally remembering where I had parked my car in pre-dawn dark the day before, I start the ignition, putting the windshield wipers on full speed. I merge onto the freeway, pinching myself to stay awake long enough to reach my apartment and my pillow.
The freeway is a flowing river current of head and tail lights. Semitrucks toss up tsunami waves cleared briefly by my wipers frantically whacking back and forth.
Just ahead in the lane to my right, a car catches my eye — it looks just like my Dad’s new Buick. I blink to clear my eyes and my mind, switching lanes to get behind. The license plate confirms it is indeed my Dad, oddly 100 miles from home in the middle of the week. I smiled, realizing he and Mom have probably planned to surprise me by taking me out for dinner.
I decide to surprise them first, switching lanes to their left and accelerating up alongside. As our cars travel side by side in the downpour, I glance over to my right to see if I can catch my Dad’s eye through streaming side windows. He is looking away to the right at that moment, obviously in conversation. It is then I realize something is amiss. When my Dad looks back at the road, he is smiling in a way I have never seen before. There are arms wrapped around his neck and shoulder, and a woman’s auburn head is snuggled into his chest.
My mother’s hair is gray.
My initial confusion turns instantly to fury. Despite the rivers of rain obscuring their view, I desperately want them to see me. I think about honking, I think about pulling in front of them so my father would know I have seen and I know. I think about ramming them with my car so that we’d perish all, unrecognizable, in an explosive storm-soaked mangle.
At that moment, my father glances over at me and our eyes meet across the lanes. His face is a mask of betrayal, bewilderment and then shock, and as he tenses, she straightens up and looks at me quizzically.
I can’t bear to look any longer.
I leave them behind, speeding beyond, splashing them with my wake. Every breath burns my lungs and pierces my heart. I can not distinguish whether the rivers obscuring my view are from my eyes or my windshield.
Somehow I made it home to my apartment, my heart still pounding in my ears. The phone rings and remains unanswered.
I throw myself on my bed, bury my wet face in my pillow and pray for sleep without dreams, without secrets, without lies, without the burden of knowing a truth I alone now knew and wished I didn’t..
Postscript: I didn’t tell anyone what I saw that day. My father never asked. He divorced my mother, and was remarried quickly, my mother and two families shattered as a result. Ten years later, his second wife died due to a relentless cancer, and he returned to my mother, asking her forgiveness and wanting to remarry. Within months, he too was diagnosed with cancer and Mom nursed him through his treatment, remission, recurrence and then hospice.
We became a family again, not the same as before, yet put back together for good reason – forgiving and forgiven.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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Now Moses was pasturing the flock of Jethro His father-in-law, the priest of Midian; and He led the flock to the west side of the wilderness, and came to Horeb, the mountain of God.
And the Angel of the Lord appeared to him in a blazing fire from the midst of a bush; and He looked, and behold, the bush was burning with fire, yet the bush was not consumed.
So Moses said, “I must turn aside now, and see this marvelous sight, why the bush is not burned up.” When the Lord saw that he turned aside to look, God called to him from the midst of the bush, and said, “Moses, Moses!” And Moses said, “Here I am.” Then God said, “Do not come near here; remove your sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground.” ~Exodus 3: 1-5
Earth’s crammed with heaven, and every common bush afire with God; but only he who sees, takes off his shoes — the rest sit around it and pluck blackberries. ~Elizabeth Barrett Browning from “Aurora Leigh”
It is difficult to undo our own damage… It is hard to desecrate a grove and change your mind. The very holy mountains are keeping mum. We doused the burning bush and cannot rekindle it; we are lighting matches in vain under every green tree. ~Annie Dillard from Teaching a Stone to Talk
I need to turn aside and look, to see, as if for the first and last time, the kindled fire that illuminates even the darkest day and never dies away.
I can not douse the burning bush.
I am invited, by no less than God Himself, to shed my shoes, to walk barefoot and vulnerable, to approach His bright and burning dawn.
Only then, only then can I say: “Here I am! Consume me!”
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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When the doctor suggested surgery and a brace for all my youngest years, my parents scrambled to take me to massage therapy, deep tissue work, osteopathy, and soon my crooked spine unspooled a bit, I could breathe again, and move more in a body unclouded by pain. My mom would tell me to sing songs to her the whole forty-five minute drive to Middle Two Rock Road and forty- five minutes back from physical therapy. She’d say, even my voice sounded unfettered by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang, because I thought she liked it. I never asked her what she gave up to drive me, or how her day was before this chore. Today, at her age, I was driving myself home from yet another spine appointment, singing along to some maudlin but solid song on the radio, and I saw a mom take her raincoat off and give it to her young daughter when a storm took over the afternoon. My god, I thought, my whole life I’ve been under her raincoat thinking it was somehow a marvel that I never got wet. ~Ada Limón “The Raincoat”
When I was 13, I grew too quickly. My spine developed a thoracic scoliosis (curvature) — after inspecting my back as I bent over to touch my toes, my pediatrician referred me to a pediatric orthopedic specialist an hour away from my home town.
The question was whether I would need to have a metal rod surgically placed along my spine to prevent it from more misalignment or whether I would need to wear a back brace like a turtle. The least intervention would be physical therapy to try to keep my back and abdominal muscles as strong as possible to limit the curvature.
Since my father didn’t have much flexibility in his work schedule, my mother had to drive me to the “big city” for my appointments – as a nervous driver, she did it only because she knew it was necessary to get the medical opinion needed. She asked me to read aloud to her from whatever book I was reading at the time – I don’t think she listened closely but I think she knew it would keep me occupied while she navigated traffic.
At first, we went every three months for new xrays. The orthopedist would draw on my bare back and on my spine xrays with a black marker, calculating my curves and angles with his protractor, watching for a trend of worsening as I grew taller. He reassured us that I hadn’t yet reached a critical level of deviation requiring more aggressive treatment.
Eventually my growth rate slowed down and the specialist dismissed me from further visits, wishing me well. He told me I would certainly be somewhat “crooked” for the rest of my life, and it would inevitably worsen in my later years. I continued to visit PT for regular visits; my mom would patiently wait in the car as I sweated my way through the regimen.
The orthopedist was right about the curvature of my aging spine. I am not only a couple inches shorter now, but my rib cage and chest wall is asymmetric affecting my ability to stand up totally straight. An xray shows the wear and tear of arthritis changes in my somewhat twisted chest wall and spine.
I consider crookedness a small price to pay for avoiding a serious surgery or a miserable brace as a teenager.
What I didn’t understand at the time was the commitment my mother made to make sure I got the medical monitoring I needed, even if it meant great inconvenience in her life, even if she was awake at night worried about the outcome of the appointments, even if the financial burden was significant for my family. She, like so many parents with children with significant medical or psychological challenges, gave up her wants and wishes to make sure I received what I needed.
As a kid, I just assumed that’s what a mom does. Later, as a mom myself, I realized it IS what moms and dads do, but often at significant personal cost. As a physician, I saw many young people whose parents couldn’t make the commitment to see they got the care they needed, and it showed.
I was blessed by parents who did what their kids needed to thrive.
Without my realizing it, my mom constantly offered me her raincoat so I wouldn’t get wet. Meanwhile she was getting drenched. I never really understood.
Some of you walk this road, now and in the past, sometimes long miles with a family member, handing over your own raincoat when the storms of life overwhelm.
Your sacrifice and compassion are Jesus’ hands and feet made tangible. He walks along where we go, keeping us safe and dry for as long as it takes.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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Now a red, sleepy sun above the rim Of twilight stares along the quiet weald, And the kind, simple country shines revealed In solitudes of peace, no longer dim. The old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, Then stretches down his head to crop the green. All things that he has loved are in his sight; The places where his happiness has been Are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good. ~Siegfried Sassoon from “Break of Day”
Stay away from reading 24 hour headlines. Avoid being crushed by disturbing news. Try facing the sun as it rises and sets, knowing it will continue to do so, no matter what.
Do not forget the eternal source of peace was sent to earth directly from God: one Man walked among us, became sacrifice, and He will return.
A new day breaks fresh each morning and folds into itself gently each evening.
Be glad for another day when all things you love are within reach.
Breathe deeply in gratitude for the remembrance of infinite blessings.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer Thought it scarcely worth his while, To waste his time on the old violin. But he held it up with a smile, “What am I bid, good friends,” he cried. “Who’ll start the bidding for me?” “A dollar, a dollar. Then two! Only two? Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?”
“Three dollars once. And three dollars twice. And going, and going, . . . ” But no, From the back of the room a gray-haired man Came forward and picked up the bow. And wiping the dust from the old violin And tightening the loose strings He played a melody pure and sweet As caroling angels sing.
The music ceased and the auctioneer With a voice that was quiet and low, Said “What am I bid for the old violin?” As he held it up with the bow. “One thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two? Two thousand dollars, and three! Three thousand, once, and three thousand twice, And going, and going, and gone!” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried, “We don’t quite understand What changed its worth.” Swift came the reply. “’Twas the touch of the master’s hand.” And many a man with life out of tune And battered and scarred with sin, Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, Much like the old violin.
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine, A game, and he travels on. He’s going once, and going twice, And going, and almost gone. But the Master comes and the thoughtless crowd Never can quite understand The worth of a soul, and the change that is wrought, By the touch of the Master’s hand. ~Myra Brooks Welch “The Touch of the Master’s Hand”
Strange shape, who moulded first thy dainty shell? Who carved these melting curves? Who first did bring Across thy latticed bridge the slender string? Who formed this magic wand, to weave the spell, And lending thee his own soul, bade thee tell, When o’er the quiv’ring strings, he drew the bow, Life’s history of happiness and woe, Or sing a paean, or a fun’ral knell?
Oh come, beloved, responsive instrument, Across thy slender throat with gentle care I’ll stretch my heart-strings; and be quite content To lose them, if with man I can but share The springs of song, that in my soul are pent, To quench his thirst, and help his load to bear. ~Bertha Gordon “To a Violin”
My maternal grandfather, a Palouse wheat farmer starting in the late 1800s, was a self-taught fiddle player. My mother, born in 1920, remembered him pulling the violin out of its case at the end of a long day working in the fields, enjoying playing jigs and ditties for his family.
The history of how he acquired this violin has been lost three generations later. The fiddle itself became a veteran of many sad and joyous tunes over the years.
Now scratched and tarnished and stringless, it is hardly a thing of beauty. My research suggests it is one of many mass-produced factory-made violins sold through Sears Roebuck back in the early 1900’s. It was made to “appear” like a rare hand-crafted German Stradivarius, but affordable for the common man.
Still, its value isn’t in how it was made, or who actually glued it together and stamped a brand on it. Its value is found in the hands that cradled it, holding it carefully under the chin, drawing heart-felt sounds from its strings.
Just like this old violin, aged and out of tune, I’m looking a bit scratched up and battered from years of use.
God has picked me up, blowing away my dustiness. He has tightened and tuned my strings to coax a song from me.
Restored, I can resonate in joy and tears.
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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