Thank you for this day made of wind and rain and sun and the scent of old-fashioned lilacs. Thank you
for the pond and the slippery tadpole and the wild iris that opened beside the pond last week, so pale, so nearly purple,
their stems already flagged and bent. Thank you for the yellow morels hiding in the field grass, the ones we can only see when we are already
on our knees. And thank you for the humming that rises out of the morning as if mornings are simply reasons to hum. What a gift,
this being alive, this chance to encounter the world. What a gift, this being a witness to spring— spring in everything. Spring in the way
that we greet each other. Spring in the way the golden eagle takes to the thermals and spirals up to where we can barely see the great span of its wings.
Spring in the words we have known since our births. Like glory. Like celebrate. ~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer “In Case I Forget to Say It Enough” from All the Honey
Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song Sing to the One who mends our broken hearts with music. Sing to the One who fills our empty hearts with love. Sing to the One who gives us light to step into the darkest night. Sing to the God who turns our sighs into a song. ~Susan Boersma
Each spring day begins new possibility with a sigh, a deep breath and thankfulness-
even when there are tears, sometimes heartbreak, and flat out fear of what may come next.
Even so, through it all I hum along in celebration, singing a song of praise, an alleluia that reminds me why I am and who I live for.
All is well, it is well with my soul.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
On Epiphany day, we are still the people walking. We are still people in the dark, and the darkness looms large around us, beset as we are by fear, anxiety, brutality, violence, loss — a dozen alienations that we cannot manage.
We are — we could be — people of your light. So we pray for the light of your glorious presence as we wait for your appearing; we pray for the light of your wondrous grace as we exhaust our coping capacity; we pray for your gift of newness that will override our weariness; we pray that we may see and know and hear and trust in your good rule.
That we may have energy, courage, and freedom to enact your rule through the demands of this day. We submit our day to you and to your rule, with deep joy and high hope. ~Walter Brueggemann from Prayers for a Privileged People
photo by Nate Gibson
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. ~T.S. Eliot from “Journey of the Magi”
…the scent of frankincense and myrrh arrives on the wind, and I long to breathe deeply, to divine its trail. But I know their uses and cannot bring myself to breathe deeply enough to know whether what comes is the fragrant welcoming of birth or simply covers the stench of death. These hands coming toward me, is it swaddling they carry or shroud? ~Jan Richardson from Night Visions –searching the shadows of Advent and
The Christmas season is a wrap, put away for another year. However, our hearts are not so easily boxed up and stored as the decorations and ornaments of the season.
Our troubles and concerns go on; our frailty and failures a daily reality. We can be distracted with holidays for a few weeks, but our time here slips away ever more quickly.
The Christmas story is not just about light and birth and joy to the world. It is about how swaddling clothes became a shroud that wrapped Him tight, yet He broke free to liberate us. There is no swaddling without the shroud.
God came to be with us; Delivered so He could deliver. Planted on and in the earth. Born so He could die in our place To leave the linen strips behind, neatly folded.
Christmas: the swaddled unwrapped, freeing us forever from the shroud. Epiphany: His Light illuminates the Seed taking root in our hearts.
The Light is turned on, as if a switch has been flipped.
Translation: Light, warm and heavy as pure gold and angels sing softly to the new-born babe.
Through love to light! Oh, wonderful the way That leads from darkness to the perfect day! From darkness and from sorrow of the night To morning that comes singing o’er the sea. Through love to light! Through light, O God, to thee, Who art the love of love, the eternal light of light!
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day; Every leaf speaks bliss to me Fluttering from the autumn tree. ~Emily Brontë, from Fall, Leaves, Fall
A steely torn silver, rusted along the edges; the faint acidic yellow, like the backwash of a polluted pond; earth-spatter
and gold spot in blotchy shallows; grays the purpling of drenched slate; and a pooling crimson with the false
bonhomie of the maraschino cherry – all that unnecessary life turning to tinder. The shadows were fragile-fertile
beyond the shocks of grimy hay in a spent field. The India-ink, closeted blacks – why choose the easeful darks?
Not that anything lay hidden there. Was it only the spilled-over, abandoned life and, from the wastage, the broken buds? ~William Logan “Leaf Color”
I too was once ablaze, alive, vibrant, burning with color and passion, blending hues together in a blissful rainbow medley before letting go to fly to my winter rest.
It is never wasteful to flame up for an exuberant goodbye. Broken beauty spills over to glory.
Autumn is never the end of my story. Nor yours.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
You can die for it- an idea, or the world. People have done so, brilliantly, letting their small bodies be bound to the stake, creating an unforgettable fury of light. But this morning, climbing the familiar hills in the familiar fabric of dawn, I thought of China, and India and Europe, and I thought how the sun blazes for everyone just so joyfully as it rises under the lashes of my own eyes, and I thought I am so many! What is my name? What is the name of the deep breath I would take over and over for all of us? Call it whatever you want, it is happiness, it is another one of the ways to enter fire. ~Mary Oliver “Sunrise”
I woke at 5:10 AM bathed in rose-light. When I looked out the window, I could tell something extraordinary was happening in the sky.
Here is what I saw: a turmoil of clouds to the northeast reflecting the fire of the sun, sunrise rays over our barn, and remarkably to the south west, a bright rainbow at dawn pouring glory onto our hill pasture.
But most remarkable of all is the deer standing in our pasture witnessing it all with me. She looked at me, then looked at the rainbow and wandered off to be drenched in its color, her thirst quenched.
So my thirsty soul longs to enter the fire of God’s promise to us. I breathe deeply of this.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “God’s Grandeur”
What took Him to this wretched place What kept Him on this road? ~Stuart Townend and Keith Getty from “Gethesemane”
photo by Bob Tjoelker
Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept. Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn’t move, maybe the lake far away, where once he walked as on a blue pavement, lay still and waited, wild awake. Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not keep that vigil, how they must have wept, so utterly human, knowing this too must be a part of the story. ~Mary Oliver from “Gethsemane”
You could not watch one hour with me–James Tissot
Today marks the crushing of Christ in the Garden of the Oil Press: Gethsemane -a place of olive trees treasured for the fine oil delivered from their fruit. And so, on this night, the pressure is turned up high on the disciples, not just on Jesus.
The disciples are expected, indeed commanded, to keep watch alongside the Master, to be filled with prayer, to avoid the temptation of their weakened flesh at every turn.
But they fail pressure testing and fall apart.
Like them, I am easily lulled by complacency, by my over-indulged satiety for material comforts that do not truly fill hunger or quench thirst, by my expectation that being called a follower of Jesus is somehow enough.
It is not enough. I fail the pressure test as well.
I fall asleep through His anguish. I dream, oblivious, while He sweats blood. I give Him up with a kiss. I might even deny I know Him when I’m pressed hard.
Yet, the moment of His betrayal becomes the moment He is glorified, thereby God is glorified and we are saved.
Crushed, bleeding, poured out over the world – He becomes the sacrifice that anoints us.
Incredibly, mysteriously, indeed miraculously, He loves us anyway, broken as we are, because He knows broken like no other.
Van Gogh – Olive Grove 1889
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Christ’s love has gathered us into one. Let us rejoice and be pleased in Him. Let us fear, and let us love the living God. And may we love each other with a sincere heart. ~Paulinus of Aquileia (AD 796)
When I hear these powerful words sung with a unity of spirit through diversity of voice and song, my own impulse to be divisive is convicted; I am found guilty of provoking separation rather than blending in holy togetherness.
May my disparate parts be gathered by His immense capacity for goodness, my broken fragments repaired, knitted whole by His loving charity, His knowledge of me always better than my own understanding, forgiving me from His all-encompassing compassion in this world without end. Amen
This year’s Lenten theme for Barnstorming is a daily selection from songs and hymns about Christ’s profound sacrifice on our behalf.
If we remain silent about Him, the stones themselves will shout out and start to sing (Luke 19:40).
In His name, may we sing…
Where charity and love are, God is there. Christ’s love has gathered us into one. Let us rejoice and be pleased in Him. Let us fear, and let us love the living God. And may we love each other with a sincere heart. Where charity and love are, God is there. As we are gathered into one body, Beware, lest we be divided in mind. Let evil impulses stop, let controversy cease, And may Christ our God be in our midst. Where charity and love are, God is there. And may we with the saints also, See Thy face in glory, O Christ our God: The joy that is immense and good, Unto the ages through infinite ages. Amen.
Lyrics in Latin: Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. Congregavit nos in unum Christi amor. Exsultemus, et in ipso jucundemur. Timeamus, et amemus Deum vivum. Et ex corde diligamus nos sincero. Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. Simul ergo cum in unum congregamur: Ne nos mente dividamur, caveamus. Cessent iurgia maligna, cessent lites. Et in medio nostri sit Christus Deus. Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est. Simul quoque cum beatis videamus, Glorianter vultum tuum, Christe Deus: Gaudium quod est immensum, atque probum, Saecula per infinita saeculorum.
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support daily Barnstorming posts
Unclench your fists Hold out your hands. Take mine. Let us hold each other. Thus is his Glory Manifest. ~Madeleine L’Engle “Epiphany”
Journeying God, pitch your tent with mine so that I may not become deterred by hardship, strangeness, doubt. Show me the movement I must make
toward a wealth not dependent on possessions toward a wisdom not based on books toward a strength not bolstered by might toward a God not confined to heaven
Imagine the Lord, for the first time, from darkness, and stranded Immensely in distance, recognizing Himself in the Son Of Man: His homelessness plain to him now in a homeless one. ~Joseph Brodsky from “Nativity Poem” (translated by Seamus Heaney)
‘A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.’
A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
…And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we lead all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death. ~T.S.Eliot from “Journey of the Magi”
In journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by mine own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren; In weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness. 2 Corinthians 11:26-27
Oh, when we are journeying through the murky night and the dark woods of affliction and sorrow, it is something to find here and there a spray broken, or a leafy stem bent down with the tread of His foot and the brush of His hand as He passed; and to remember that the path He trod He has hallowed, and thus to find lingering fragrance and hidden strength in the remembrance of Him as “in all points tempted like as we are,” bearing grief for us, bearing grief with us, bearing grief like us. ~Alexander MacLaren from Sermons Preached in Manchester: First series
We are called to journey into the unfamiliar; some go no further than the backyard, some to the ends of the earth, some to the moon and back.
The journey is not about the miles covered; it is an internal trek we all must make on the crooked road of our hearts, by relaxing our clenched fists, taking the offered hand and being led to that straight path back to God.
Much of the journey is perilous. We may become both sacrament and sacrifice.
He has been down that road before us, knowing the temptations, and bearing the grief we face.
There is but one map available and one map maker. This road leads home and home is where He patiently waits for us.
January 6, the traditional day of celebrating “Epiphany” as the manifestation of God on earth in the form of His incarnate Son, calls us to deeper scrutiny of our earthly journey — away from our anger, our shame and our resultant homelessness, to the restoration of our souls, resting in the sacrifice of Christ Himself.
1. On this day earth shall ring with the song children sing Praising the young King, who was born to save us And the maiden who brought Him forth to save us.
2. His the doom, ours the mirth, when he came to earth, Bethlehem saw his birth, ox and ass beside him, He came to vanquish the Prince of Darkness.
3. God’s bright star o’er his head, Wise men come seeking Him, They kneel and lay their gifts beside Him and adore Him, They offer gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh
One-Time
Monthly
Yearly
Make a one-time or recurring donation to support Barnstorming
Today is my mother’s birthday, but she’s not here to celebrate by opening a flowery card or looking calmly out a window.
If my mother were alive, she’d be 114 years old, and I am guessing neither of us would be enjoying her birthday very much.
Mother, I would love to see you again to take you shopping or to sit in your sunny apartment with a pot of tea, but it wouldn’t be the same at 114.
And I’m no prize either, almost 20 years older than the last time you saw me sitting by your deathbed. Some days, I look worse than yesterday’s oatmeal.
It must have been frigid that morning in the hour just before dawn on your first December 1st at the family farm a hundred miles north of Toronto.
Happy Birthday, anyway. Happy Birthday to you. ~Billy Collins from “December 1”
December 1st is not my mother’s birthday but it was her death day thirteen years ago.
Yet it felt a bit like a birth.
The call came from the care center about 5:30 AM on the Monday after Thanksgiving on a frozen morning: the nurse gently said her breathing had changed, it wasn’t long now until she’d be gone.
My daughter and I quickly dressed and went out into bleak darkness to make the ten minute drive to where she lay. Mom had been wearily existing since a femur fracture 9 months earlier on a cruel April 1st morning. Everything changed for her at 87 years of being active at home. It was the beginning of the end for her, unable to care for herself at home.
These nine months had been her gestation time to transition to a new life. It occurred to me as I drove – she was about to be born in her long-awaited yet long-feared transition to death.
Her room was darkened except for the multicolored lights on the table top artificial Christmas tree I had brought her a few days earlier. It cast colorful shadows onto the walls and the white bedspread on her hospital bed. It even made her look like she had color to her cheeks where there actually was none.
There was no one home.
She had already left, flown away while we drove the few miles to come to her. There was no reaching her now. Her skin was cooling, her face hollowed by the lack of effort, her body stilled and sunken.
I could not weep at that point – it was time for her to leave us behind. She was so very tired, so very weary, so very ready for heaven. And I, weary too, felt much like yesterday’s oatmeal, something she actually very much loved during her life, cooking up a big batch a couple times a week, enough to last several days.
I knew, seeing what was left of her there in that bed, Mom was no longer settling for yesterday’s oatmeal and no longer homeless. I knew she now she was present for a feast, would never suffer insomnia again, would no longer be fearful of dying, that her cheeks would be forever full of color.
I knew she had a new beginning: the glory of rebirth thanks to her Savior who had gently taken her by the hand to a land where joy would never end.
Happy Birthday, Mom. Happy December 1st Birthday to you.
I’ll fly away, oh glory I’ll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I’ll fly away
God makes us happy as only children can be happy. God wants to always be with us, wherever we may be – in our sin, in our suffering and death. We are no longer alone; God is with us. We are no longer homeless; a bit of the eternal home itself has moved unto us. ~Dietrich Bonhoeffer
Some bright morning when this life is over I’ll fly away To that home on God’s celestial shore I’ll fly away
I’ll fly away, oh glory I’ll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I’ll fly away
When the shadows of this life have gone I’ll fly away Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly I’ll fly away
Oh how glad and happy when we meet I’ll fly away No more cold iron shackles on my feet I’ll fly away
Just a few more weary days and then I’ll fly away To a land where joys will never end I’ll fly away
I’ll fly away oh glory I’ll fly away in the morning When I die hallelujah by and by I’ll fly away I’ll fly away ~Albert Brumley
This year’s Barnstorming Advent theme “… the Beginning shall remind us of the End” is taken from the final lines in T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Cultivation of Christmas Trees”
A book of beauty in words and photography, available to order here:
“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 the world was made this way: piecemeal, the parts fitting together exactly as if made for one another~ the unique, disparate and separate coming together in a glorious harmony.
The point of its creation is forever functional and full of love – a blanket of warmth and security for generations to come. Our legacy is to preserve this beauty arising from scraps, this broken stitched to broken in a tapestry holy and whole.
all quilts here are on display this week at the Northwest Washington Fair see previous year’s artwork here and here and here and here
This new Barnstorming book is like a quilt made of pieces of poetry and photographs – available for order here:
A lurking man in that half light, there where eye imagines sight, stops my heart until I see Lurking man is leaning tree.
What changed? The man? There was none. Tree? The tree was always there. Then me? I did not change. I came to see and what I saw, what was could be. ~Archibald MacLeish, from Collected Poems 1917 to 1982
Every day I look for what is obvious on the farm – the trees, the flowers, the animals, the clouds, the lighting – all the daily and mundane things surrounding me. More often than not, what I see is straight-forward, needing no extra mental processing or interpretation.
Occasionally, my mind’s eye sees more and I’m stopped in my tracks. What is it I’m seeing and how much am I simply imagining? I see what “could be” and that alone creates a new dimension to what, on the surface, is plain and simple. Suddenly what is plain becomes glorious – a flower is otherworldly, a cat transformed by light, a wet feather a thing of beauty, a tree moves and breathes as if it is on fire.
Because my mind’s eye wants to look deeper, I see more detail. Because I myself am complex, I seek out complexity. Because I need transformation and renewal, my mind seeks to transform and renew. Because nothing around me is quite as it seems on the surface, I am called upon to notice it, in its beauty and in its simplicity.
I am changed by imagining how glorious things could be.
Imagine what your mind’s eye can see in more Barnstorming photos in this book, available to order here:
Barnstorming 