Tag: creation

And Something Happened…

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

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 in House Made of Dawn

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Nate Gibson

Something happened.

Something happened, lighting the darkness and overcoming nothingness.

Something happened and the story of the Beginning
is breathed within us.

Something happened when God spoke out of the silence.

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

AI image created for this post

Broken Stitched to Broken

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

“I make them warm to keep my family from freezing;
I make them beautiful to keep my heart from breaking.”
–From the journal of a prairie woman, 1870



To keep a husband and five children warm,
she quilts them covers thick as drifts against
the door. Through every fleshy square white threads
needle their almost invisible tracks; her hours
count each small suture that holds together
the raw-cut, uncolored edges of her life.
She pieces each one beautiful, and summer bright
to thaw her frozen soul. Under her fingers
the scraps grow to green birds and purple
improbable leaves; deeper than calico, her mid-winter
mind bursts into flowers. She watches them unfold
between the double stars, the wedding rings.
~Luci Shaw “Quiltmaker”

Perhaps God made the world this way:
piecemeal, parts fitting together exactly
as if meant for one another~
the unique, disparate and separate
joined together in glorious harmony.

The point of creation is
forever functional, yet full of love –
a blanket of warmth and security
for generations to come.

Our legacy is to preserve this
beauty arising from various scraps,
this broken stitched to broken
in a tapestry holy and whole.

AI image created for this post

~~click each quilt to enlarge and admire the handiwork~~

thank you again to the talented quilters displaying their art at the NW Washington Fair in Lynden
(see previous years’ work 2015, 2016, 2017, 2018, 2021, 2022 and 2023 )

The Purpose for Slugs

barnstormingblog2 Comments

Girls are like slugs—they probably serve some purpose, but it’s hard to imagine what.
~Bill Watterson, in Calvin and Hobbes

Who could have dreamed them up? At least snails
have shells, but all these have is—nothing.
Small black antennae like fat pins wave
as if they could take in enough to get them through.
Turn them over, they’re the soles of new shoes,
pale and unmarked as babies. They flow,
the soil itself learning how to move and, moving,
almost staying still, their silver monorail
the only evidence of where they’d been.
And they die quiet, or at least (thankfully)
out of the human ear’s range, between two stones,
under heels, shriveling in salt or piss, at the tips
of sharp sticks. Fight back, I hear myself say,
do something. Don’t just take it. But they die
as they had lived, exuding slime…
~Brian Swann from “Slugs”

Summer rain is desperately needed in our corner of the U.S. It is typically a frequent visitor to the Pacific Northwest and is forecast for tomorrow which means we will soon be overflowing with slug slime and the lovely multicolored gastropod creatures that produce it.

As the first few shower drops fall, they appear out of the ground like seeds that plump and germinate miraculously overnight. The slug crop burgeons, and with it, oozy trails of glistening slug slime.

We live on a hill, which means I walk downhill to the barn for chores. On rainy days, the barnyard path includes a few slugs under each foot. That produces a certain memorable squish factor.

I’ve learned to don my rubber boots and just squash and slide. There will undoubtedly be more slugs to replace those flattened and lost to eternity, not unlike watching freeze-dried shrinky dinks spontaneously rehydrate.

We need the rain badly, otherwise I would negotiate with drought-stricken areas to transfer the raindrops elsewhere. Part of the deal is: the slugs must go too along with gallons of slime, containing a complex mix of proteoglycans, glycosaminoglycans, glycoprotein enzymes, hyaluronic acid, antimicrobial peptides, and metal ions of zinc, iron, copper and manganese. Surely someone somewhere would appreciate slime’s precious metals and sticky proteins!

Of course, I’m sure I’d miss them and their sticky icky gooiness. But it is time for someone else to figure out just what the heck is the purpose of slimy gastropods.

I’ve given up trying to figure it out…

Girls are like slugs…
byu/MarsTheGodofWar incalvinandhobbes

The Smallest Detail

barnstormingblog1 Comment
photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

When I was with the green hummingbird, it became the company I didn’t know I needed. We spent our mornings together, and after it went its way, I read and wrote.

…a hummingbird, essential company in the endless journey through dead-ends, restarts, and new beginnings – as well as a reminder of the beauty of the world, the power of the sun, the rain, love, and life, all packed inside the body of a creature that weighs less than an ounce. A sign that within the smallest detail, the whole world is present, and just as the gravity and magnificence of life is present in the mountains, oceans, stars, and everything larger than life, it is also brilliantly present in its smallest bird.
~Zito Madu from “Hummingbirds are Wondrous” in Plough

photo by Josh Scholten

While weeding in the garden tonight,
my husband found a dead hummingbird,
wings spread as if still in flight
yet bold hum and chirp gone –

dear little bird, so quiet and alone,
as if it simply dropped from the sky,
a wee bit of fluff and stardust.

Wondrous detail and essence
is best seen immobilized by death –
its little heart no longer races,
its lungs empty,
its wings stilled.

– from a Death
comes a reminder of the joys
which overwhelm all sorrows of this world –

a world God-breathed with His gentle and radiant beauty.

AI image created for this post

It Is Good…

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

(credit for this poem is given below)

Until God says “Light” all matches stay box
-stashed. Then Boom. Ever since, night,
day, night. Never two nights in a row.
God says It is Good. Day One. Backstage
Clipboard Angel (that’s me) says Good
is not good enough. Some day a hard
-ass atheist will claim it’s random.

Day Two. God rolls up his monogrammed
sleeve, pushes water aside and hauls
out land. The flourishes are mine: tundra,
marshes, quicksand, mangrove islands.
Without stepping out for a smoke,
I poke tubers, rysomes, and seeds
in soil. Blow dandelions and toss
maple whirligigs so they can
have their fun before settling down.

When God opens the Day Three box,
trees pop out. Because Yours Truly
packed the Day Three Box on Day Two.
Am I the only one who knows atheists
will second guess, double check?
Sloppiness feeds the Aha gotcha frenzy.

Day four, God says, Run to the store and get
all the helium and hydrogen they have.
Sun and moon. It is Good. Blah blah blah.
It’s supposed to be my day off, but I know
I have to make eggs for Day Five, so what’s the diff?

Day Five is Bird-Fish-Beast day. Birds
Day Five means eggs Day Four. Scary
to think what would happen without me.

Day Six he makes atheists and I lose it.
I actually throw my clipboard. I know
I’m overworked, under listened to. I say
wait a day. Rest. He says I’ll rest after
I make atheists. He’s Mr. Big Picture.
I’m Mr. Yelled At If Things Go
South. I put in for overtime—first
time all week. Sidekicks get no sick days.
~Paul Jolly, “Creation Story” from Why Ice Cream Trucks Play Christmas Songs

Rodin – Eve
Adam – Alexei Kazansev
Man with a broken arm – by David Marshall
Degas – Dancer Looking at the Sole of her Foot
Hope by Scott Emory
AI image created for this post

Hardly random.

What we see and hear and taste and feel every day is directly from the hand of the Creator, working overtime.

Those who don’t believe came from Him and through Him.
He meant them to be.

God saying ‘It is good” is good enough.
It is good to work hard, and then rest.

Blurring of the Seasons

barnstormingblog1 Comment
Van Gogh – “Avenue of Plane Trees near Arles Station”

After Van Gogh
Things are growing strange these days,
like Van Gogh’s yellow trees. Oh, do not
be surprised by these yellow immensities,
how out of proportion things in the picture seem.
What you see in a way makes sense:
the enormous, barren trees eclipsing
the unimportant buildings at Arles station,
the people all small, shadow-like, cast
to the side. Perhaps Van Gogh should have
left us out entirely, but then who would
be left to blame for the strange blurring
of the seasons in the forefront, the way
summer bleeds into autumn, the forests
burning deep into the winter, those winters
where the snow piled so high, we were all
nearly buried alive. Soon we’ll vanish,
and no picture will even exist—unless,
unless someone will answer (who will dare
to answer), where in the world is spring?
~Jodi Hollander “Avenue of Plane Trees”

Who might dare to answer: where in the world is spring?
Who can know with any certainty?
Sometimes it feels like time skips forward
and a whole season is left behind.

The signs of the seasons can blur so profoundly, there is no telling whether it is fall or spring without a calendar. Are those trees just leafing out or trying to shed? Is the sunset’s golden glow from October light or April?

I can’t feel the movement of the earth under my feet. It needs to slow its spin on its axis and lengthen its orbital oval trip around the sun so I have more minutes in the day and more weeks in a year.

But, of course, that would make a huge mess of things.

It is as it is.
It is meant to be this way.
Though it may be blurry to me,
it is clear and good and intentional to God.
He dares to answer as only He knows…

AI image created for this post
AI image created for this post

An Everlasting Quietness

barnstormingblog3 Comments

The simple words no longer work.
Neither do the grand ones.
Something about
The hanging bits of dark
Mixed with your hair.
The everlasting quietness
Attached to the deserted barn
Made me think I’d discovered you
But you already knew all about yourself
As we stood on the edge of a forest
With your dress as languid as the air,
The day made of spring wind and daffodils.
Then the sky appeared in blue patches
Among slow clouds,
Oak leaves came out on the trees,
Grass suddenly became green,
Filled with small animals that sing.
All the parts of spring were gathering,
The earth was being created all over again
One piece at a time
Just for you.
~Tom Hennen “Found on the Earth” From Darkness Sticks To Everything

I’m waking from wintry doldrums,
to earlier mornings, longer evenings,
healing from weeks of cold and weariness.

It is as if all has been rebirthed,
vivid with light and songs and color and smells –
I cannot imagine not sharing it all.

This renewal feels so personal,
as if just for me –
yet I know others are waking too.

I face the morning sun in silence,
my eyelids closed and glowing,
warming in the light.

So I offer up this blessed cup of quiet,
steeped and ready to pour out,
just for you.

Ignore It or See It

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

Divinity is not playful.
The universe was not made in jest
but in solemn incomprehensible earnest.
By a power that is unfathomably secret,
and holy, and fleet.
There is nothing to be done about it,
but ignore it,
or see. 
~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

For since the creation of the world
God’s invisible qualities—
his eternal power and divine nature—
have been clearly seen,
being understood from what has been made,
so that people are without excuse.
Romans 1:20

We weren’t conceived by random happenstance –
not even the unwelcomed millions wished or washed away
before ever taking a breath.

We are here because we were earnestly needed and wanted,
by a power and divinity with a capacity for love and compassion
beyond anything we are capable of.

We aren’t a cosmic joke,
or random couplings of DNA.
We aren’t pawns in the universe’s chess game.

We have the capacity to see
the image of God in one another,
and in the mirror,
yet we ignore it.

God won’t be ignored nor does He accept feeble excuses.

We are invited by Christ Himself to
“come and see.” (John 1:39)

Like a Cat Asleep

barnstormingblog3 Comments

All that matters is to be at one with the living God
to be a creature in the house of the God of Life.

Like a cat asleep on a chair
at peace, in peace
and at one with the master of the house, with the mistress,
at home, at home in the house of the living,
sleeping on the hearth, and yawning before the fire.

Sleeping on the hearth of the living world
yawning at home before the fire of life
feeling the presence of the living God
like a great reassurance
a deep calm in the heart
a presence
as of the master sitting at the board
in his own and greater being,
in the house of life.
~D.H. Lawrence “Pax”

When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
     The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
     Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
          His ineffable effable
          Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular name.
~T.S. Eliot from The Naming of Cats

The fat cat on the mat
may seem to dream
of nice mice that suffice
for him, or cream;
~J.R.R. Tolkien from “Cat” from Tales of the Perilous Realm

I don’t know where prayers go,
or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
half-asleep in the sun?

Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that’s their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.
~Mary Oliver from “I Happened to be Standing” from A Thousand Mornings

Our cats seem to have no sense of time — until it is mealtime.

Otherwise they pussyfoot through the hours of the day, unworried about what comes next, or what just happened. They find a convenient patch of sun, or a particularly soft cushion, or sometimes a most unlikely place like a cardboard box or pile of shavings or top of a fencepost.

Then they yawn, become rubber-boned and curl up for a nap.

How do they contemplate the fact of their existence?
How do they appear so relaxed, in peace and serenity?
Do they understand their place in creation and give thanks?

God wants us to rest comfortably in our own skins, as adaptable as a sleeping cat. And He wants us to count our days without wasting a moment for thankfulness. We are meant to be more than just hungry and sleepy and rubber-boned.

We are created in His image, acutely aware of the privilege of our existence.

What Wondrous Love: Something Way Down Deep

barnstormingblogLeave a comment

We all know that something is eternal. 
And it ain’t houses and it ain’t names, 
and it ain’t earth, and it ain’t even the stars 
. . . everybody knows in their bones that something is eternal, 
and that something has to do with human beings. 
All the greatest people ever lived have been telling us that 
for five thousand years and yet you’d be surprised 
how people are always losing hold of it. 
There’s something way down deep 
that’s eternal about every human being.
~Thornton Wilder, from “Our Town”

Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.

A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?

Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
~George Herbert “Love III”

Write as if you were dying.
At the same time, assume you write for an audience consisting solely of terminal patients.
That is, after all, the case.
~Annie Dillard from “Write Till You Drop”

I began to write regularly after September 11, 2001 because more than on any previous day, it became obvious to me I was dying, though more slowly than the thousands who vanished that day in fire and ash, their voices obliterated with their bodies into eternity.  

Nearly each day since, while I still have voice and a new dawn to greet, I speak through my fingers to others dying with and around me.

We are, after all, terminal patients — some of us more prepared than others to move on — as if our readiness had anything to do with the timing.

Each day I get a little closer to the eternal, but I write in order to feel a little more ready.  Each day I want to detach just a little bit, leaving a trace of my voice behind.  Eventually, through unmerited grace, so much of me will be left on the page there won’t be anything or anyone left to do the typing.

There is no time or word to waste.

Listen, I tell you a mystery: 
We will not all sleep, but we will all be changed— in a flash, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet.
1 Corinthians 15: 51-52

This Lenten season I reflect on the words of the 19th century southern spiritual hymn “What Wondrous Love is This”