One grief, all evening—: I’ve stumbled upon another animal merely being itself and still cuffing me to grace.
This time a bumblebee, black and staggered above some wet sidewalk litter. When I stop at what I think is dying
to deny loneliness one more triumph, I see instead a thing drunk with discovery—the bee entangled
with blossom after pale, rain-dropped blossom gathered beneath a dogwood. And suddenly I receive the cold curves and severe angles
from this morning’s difficult dreams about faith:—certain as light, arriving; certain as light, dimming to another shadowed wait.
How many strokes of undivided wonder will have me cross the next border, my hands emptied of questions? ~Geffrey Davis “West Virginia Nocturne”from Night Angler
So much happens in the lives of creatures in the world above, around, and beneath our feet. The dewy immobilized bumblebee, the ladybug floating, rescued by a cloverleaf, the translucent spider hiding in a blossom fold.
Most of the time we are oblivious, absorbed in our own joys, fears, and sorrows, struggling to understand our own place in the world, unsure if we people are the only image of our Creator.
But life’s drama doesn’t just belong to us.
It is the baby bird fallen from the nest too young, rescued from mouth of the barn cat. It is the farmyard snake abandoning its ghost-like skin. It is the spider residing in the tulip, ready to grab the honey bee. It is the praying mantis poised to swallow the fly. It is the katydid, the cricket, the grasshopper trying to blend in.
When I struggle with my faith in this often cruel world, I realize not every question, not every doubt, needs answers. It is enough, as a trusting witness of all that is wondrous around me, to pray someday it will no longer be mysterious.
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When I drink in the stars and upward sink into the theater your words have wrought, I touch unfelt immensity and think— like Grandma used to pause in patient thought before an ordinary flower, awed by intricacies hidden in plain view, then say, “You didn’t have to do that, God!”— Surely a smaller universe would do!
But you have walled us in with open seas unconquerable, wild with distant shores whose raging dawns are but your filigree across our vaulted skies. This art of yours, what Grandma held and I behold, these flames, frames truth which awes us more: You know our names. ~Michael Stalcup“The Shallows”
there will be sun, scalloped by clouds, ushered in by a waterfall of birdsong. It will be a temperate seventy-five, low humidity. For twenty-four hours, all politicians will be silent. Reality programs will vanish from TV, replaced by the “snow” that used to decorate our screens when reception wasn’t working. Soldiers will toss their weapons in the grass. The oceans will stop their inexorable rise. No one will have to sit on a committee. When twilight falls, the aurora borealis will cut off cell phones, scramble the Internet. We’ll play flashlight tag, hide and seek, decorate our hair with fireflies, spin until we’re dizzy, collapse on the dew-decked lawn and look up, perhaps for the first time, to read the long lines of cold code written in the stars. . . . ~Barbara Crooker “Tomorrow” from Some Glad Morning
But when Aurora, daughter of the dawn, With rosy lustre purpled o’er the lawn. ~Homer from the Odyssey
Aurora is the effort Of the Celestial Face Unconsciousness of Perfectness To simulate, to Us. ~Emily Dickinson
…for the sun stopped shining. And the curtain of the temple was torn in two. Luke 23:45
A little over a year ago, an incredible display of aurora borealis paid a rare visit to our part of the Pacific Northwest. It felt appropriate to whoop and holler when the expanse of multicolored lights began to shimmer and shift above us.
Yet as the colors deepened and danced, what struck me most was the sense of how the heavens and earth seek a “thin place” where the space between God and us narrows to a hair-breadth, summoning us to communion with Him.
Just as the curtain barring us from the holy of holies in the temple was torn in two at Christ’s moment of death, with this display, the curtain between heaven and earth seems pulled apart allowing His Light to reach us.
All earthly matters which cause grief cease to matter, such as wars and talk of wars, with politicians grandstanding 24/7.
Sadly though, our flawed and fallen human foibles continue on, oblivious to the perfection of our Creator and His universe.
We are unable to separate ourselves from God’s grandeur and creation when He bids us to witness His celestial face.
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Now have come the shining days When field and wood are robed anew, And o’er the world a silver haze Mingles the emerald with the blue.
Summer now doth clothe the land In garments free from spot or stain— The lustrous leaves, the hills untanned, The vivid meads, the glaucous grain.
The day looks new, a coin unworn, Freshly stamped in heavenly mint; The sky keeps on its look of morn; Of age and death there is no hint.
How soft the landscape near and far! A shining veil the trees infold; The day remembers moon and star; A silver lining hath itsgold.
Again I see the clover bloom, And wade in grasses lush and sweet; Again has vanished all my gloom With daisies smiling at my feet.
Again from out the garden hives The exodus of frenzied bees; The humming cyclone onward drives, Or finds repose amid the trees.
At dawn the river seems a shade— A liquid shadow deep as space; But when the sun the mist has laid, A diamond shower smites its face.
The season’s tide now nears its height, And gives to earth an aspect new; Now every shoal is hid from sight, With current fresh as morning dew. ~John Burroughs “June’s Coming”
Out of the deep and the dark, A sparkling mystery, a shape, Something perfect, Comes like the stir of day: One whose breath is a fragrance, One whose eyes reveal the road to stars, The wind in his countenance, The glory of heaven upon his back. He steps like a vision hung in air, Diffusing the passion of eternity; His abode is the sunlight of morn, The music of eve his speech: In his sight, One shall turn from the dust of the grave, And move upward to the woodland. ~Yone Noguchi“The Poet”
Each month is special in its own way: I tend to favor April and October for how the light plays on the landscape during transitional times — a residual of what has been, with a hint of what lies ahead.
Then there is June. Dear, gentle, abundant and overwhelming June. Nothing is dried up, there is such a rich feeling of ascension into lushness of summer with an “out of school” attitude, even if someone like me has graduated long ago.
And the light, and the birdsong and the dew and the greens — such vivid verdant greens. The stir of the day stirs my heart…
As lovely as June is, 30 days is more than plenty or I would become helplessly saturated. Then I can be released from my sated stupor to wistfully hunger for June for 335 more.
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Not our garage cat, our upper barn cat, our lower barn cat or those that come and go on the farm because we’re a hospitable place where food is always on the table.
He was the king of the farm cats. No one questioned him (usually) and no one occupied his front porch bench/throne without his express permission. His Majesty showed mercy to any who showed proper submission, and every once in awhile, that included the dogs.
He trained every pup here over the years.
He was the official front porch farm greeter, rising from his throne cushion to investigate any newcomer walking up the sidewalk, mewing a cheerful little “chirp” of a meow in welcome. Then he turned around and returned to his perch.
José was a performance cat, having been trained in his younger years to ride on a bareback pad on our Haflingers, at walk, trot and over jumps (sorry, no pictures). This once again proved his ability to get any creature, large or small, to submit to his will.
The only love of his life was our daughter, Lea. As José arrived to our farm at an indeterminate age, we didn’t really know how many years he would be with us. Before Lea headed off to college, and when home on breaks, they had many happy snuggles together for nearly 15 years.
During our harsh winter storms, José would move to a warm farm building with all the necessary provisions until the storm was done, then reclaim his favorite spot on the front porch when he deemed it cozy enough to be worthy of him.
After one particularly nasty storm, when the cold northeast wind went away, José didn’t return from his hiding place.
I looked, I called, I left goodies out. But no José. No chirpy meow, no yellow-eyed gaze, no black velvet fur to stroke, no rumbly purr to vibrate in my lap. I think this tough cat chose a bad winter to leave for warmer quarters far far away.
I suspect – as I still keep an eye out for it — there must be a velvety black coat he abandoned somewhere here on the farm.
He simply didn’t need it any more and unafraid, he left it behind.
On our last visit, when Lucy was fifteen And getting creaky herself, One of the nurses said to me, “Why don’t you take the cat to Mrs. Harris’ room — poor thing lost her leg to diabetes last fall — she’s ninety, and blind, and no one comes to see her.”
The door was open. I asked the tiny woman in the bed if she would like me to bring Lucy in, and she turned her head toward us. “Oh, yes, I want to touch her.”
“I had a cat called Lily — she was so pretty, all white. She was with me for twenty years, after my husband died too. She slept with me every night — I loved her very much. It’s hard, in here, since I can’t get around.”
Lucy was settling in on the bed. “You won’t believe it, but I used to love to dance. I was a fool for it! I even won contests. I wish I had danced more. It’s funny, what you miss when everything…..is gone.”
This last was a murmur. She’d fallen asleep. I lifted the cat from the bed, tiptoed out, and drove home. I tried to do some desk work but couldn’t focus.
I went downstairs, pulled the shades, put on Tina Turner and cranked it up loud and I danced.
I danced. ~Alice N. Persons“Meadowbrook Nursing Home“From Don’t Be A Stranger (Sheltering Pines Press, 2007)
photo by Lea
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The children have gone to bed. We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet, the forgiveness of that sleep.
Then the one small cry: one strike of the match-head of sound: one child’s voice: and the hundred names of love are lit as we rise and walk down the hall.
One hundred nights we wake like this, wake out of our nowhere to kneel by small beds in darkness. One hundred flowers open in our hands, a name for love written in each one. ~Annie Lighthart “The Hundred Names of Love”
In the lull of evening, your son nested in your arms becomes heavier and with a sigh his body sloughs off its weight like an anchor into deep sleep, until his small breath is the only thing that exists.
And as you move the slow dance through the dim hall to his bedroom and bow down to deliver his sleeping form, arms parting, each muscle defining its arc and release— you remember the feeling of childhood,
traveling beneath a full moon, your mother’s unmistakable laugh, a field of wild grass, windows open and the night rushing in as headlights trace wands of light across your face—
there was a narrative you were braiding, meanings you wanted to pluck from the air, but the touch of a hand eased it from your brow and with each stroke you waded further
Each of those countless nights of a child wakening, each of the hundreds of hours of lulling them in the moonlit dark, leading them back to the soft forgiveness of sleep.
I remember the moves of that hypnotic dance, a head nestled snug into my neck, their chest pressed into mine, our hearts beating in synchrony as if they were still inside.
Even when our sleep was spare and true rest was sparse, those night times rocking in unison were worth every waking moment, trusting we’re in this together, no matter what, no matter how long it takes.
We’re in this together.
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Today we feel the wind beneath our wings Today the hidden fountain flows and plays Today the church draws breath at last and sings As every flame becomes a Tongue of praise. This is the feast of fire, air, and water Poured out and breathed and kindled into earth. The earth herself awakens to her maker And is translated out of death to birth. The right words come today in their right order And every word spells freedom and release Today the gospel crosses every border All tongues are loosened by the Prince of Peace Today the lost are found in His translation. Whose mother tongue is Love in every nation. ~Malcolm Guite “Pentecost” from Sounding the Seasons
I will show wonders in the heavens above and signs on the earth below, blood and fire and billows of smoke. The sun will be turned to darkness and the moon to blood before the coming of the great and glorious day of the Lord. And everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved. ~Acts 2:19-21 The Holy Spirit Comes At Pentecost
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. Not the intense moment Isolated, with no before and after, But a lifetime burning in every moment
Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. ~T.S. Eliot from “East Coker”
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.
And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things; And though the last lights off the black West went Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs— Because the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins from “God’s Grandeur”
Today, when we feel we are without hope, when faith feels frail, when love seems distant…
We wait, stilled, for the moment we are lit afire~ the Living God chose us to be seen, heard, named, loved, known.
God forever burning in our hearts in this moment and for a lifetime.
It is the dearest freshest deep down thing…
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when the sun peeks over the horizon to greet the day and spread golden honey warmth to the dark, sleepy earth
when the birds begin to stir and twitter and tune their songs to one another
when the trees rustle as the morning breeze opens her eyes from slumber, and the dew is heavy on the blades of grass
when I know morning has come once again and we are not lost to the night, even as we are not lost to the day
light dawns, and I can move again breathing in streams of fresh morning air lighting a candle for rejuvenation and praying the day in with ginger and salt and clay
Each morning is a fresh try at life, a new chance to get things right when our yesterdays are broken.
So I drink deeply of the golden dawn, take a full breath of cool air and dive in head first into luminous light and bushels of blossoms, hoping I too might float on the morning magic.
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once i saw my grandmother hold out her hand cupping a small offering of seed to one of the wild sparrows that frequented the bird bath she filled with fresh water every day
she stood still maybe stopped breathing while the sparrow looked at her, then the seed then back as if he was judging her character
Of course I love the sparrows, Those dun-colored darlings, So hungry and so many. I am a God-fearing feeder of birds, I know he has many children, Not all of them bold in spirit… ~Mary Oliver from “The Red Bird”
Through the year, I put seed and suet out for the sparrows and grosbeaks, the woodpeckers and chickadees, the juncos and finches, and yes — even the red-winged blackbirds and starlings. They would be fine without my daily contribution to their well-being, but in return for my provision of seeds, I am able to enjoy their spirited liveliness and their gracious ability to share the bounty with one another.
These birds give back to me simply by showing up, without ever realizing what their presence means to me. I don’t want to try to feed them from my hand – our communion is in my watching closely from my window.
How much more does God lay out for me on a daily basis to sustain me as I show up for Him? How oblivious am I to His gracious and profound gifts? How willingly do I share His gifts with others?
Unlike the birds, I could never survive on my own without His watchful care.
When life feels overwhelming, when I am filled with worries, sorrow, regrets and pain, I seek out this God who cares even for sparrows. He knows how to quiet my troubles and strengthen my faith and perseverance, a comfort that extends far beyond a few thistle seeds.
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There are no creatures you cannot love. A frog calling at God From the moon-filled ditch As you stand on the country road in the June night. The sound is enough to make the stars weep With happiness. In the morning the landscape green Is lifted off the ground by the scent of grass. The day is carried across its hours Without any effort by the shining insects That are living their secret lives. The space between the prairie horizons Makes us ache with its beauty. Cottonwood leaves click in an ancient tongue To the farthest cold dark in the universe. The cottonwood also talks to you Of breeze and speckled sunlight. You are at home in these great empty places along with red-wing blackbirds and sloughs. You are comfortable in this spot so full of grace and being that it sparkles like jewels spilled on water. ~Tom Hennen “From a Country Overlooked”, from Darkness Sticks to Everything
There are some God’s creatures I struggle to love – fleas, chiggers, mosquitoes, ticks, slugs, yellow jackets among them. Also poisonous snakes, spiders and scorpions come to mind. And then there are pathogenic bacteria, parasites and viruses…
It is not their fault I struggle to find their value – only God knows why He made them as He did.
What I have learned over 7 decades is to try to look for beauty wherever I am.
To listen to the breezes and the birds, to look for how the light plays with leaves and water and how it is all created to help us feel at home for the time we are here.
Yet, this is an imperfect world where beauty doesn’t provide shelter to those with their basic needs unfulfilled – where there is no comfort, no safety, no hope.
God, deliver us from being too comfortable when others suffer. Help us feel Your love to pass on to those in need. Help us to know how to make a difference for them. We know that makes a difference to You.
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My father taught me how to eat breakfast those mornings when it was my turn to help him milk the cows. I loved rising up from
the darkness and coming quietly down the stairs while the others were still sleeping. I’d take a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon
from the drawer, and slip into the pantry where he was already eating spoonfuls of cornflakes covered with mashed strawberries
from our own strawberry fields forever. Didn’t talk much—except to mention how good the strawberries tasted or the way
those clouds hung over the hay barn roof. Simple—that’s how we started up the day. ~Joyce Sutphen, “Breakfast” from First Words, Red Dragonfly.
By the time I was four years old, my family owned several Guernsey and Jersey dairy cows my father milked by hand twice a day. My mother pasteurized the milk on our wood stove and we grew up drinking the best milk on earth, as well as enjoying home-made butter and ice cream.
One of my fondest early memories is getting up early with my dad, before he needed to be at school teaching FFA agriculture students (Future Farmers of America). I would eat breakfast with him and then walk out into the foggy fall mornings with our dog to bring in the cows for milking. He would boost me up on top of a very bony-backed chestnut and white patchwork cow while he washed her udder and set to work milking.
I would sometimes sing songs from up there on my perch and my dad would whistle since he didn’t sing.
I can still hear the rhythmic sound of the milk squirting into the stainless steel bucket – the high-pitched metallic whoosh initially and then a more gurgling low wet sound as the bucket filled up. I can see my dad’s capped forehead resting against the flank of the cow as he leaned into the muscular work of squeezing the udder teats, each in turn. I can hear the cow’s chewing her breakfast of alfalfa and grain as I balanced on her prominent spine feeling her smooth hair over her ribs. The barn cats circulated around us, mewing, attracted by the warm milky fragrance in the air.
Those were preciously simple starts to the day for me and my father, whose thoughts he didn’t articulate nor I could ever quite discern. But I did know I wasn’t only his daughter on mornings like that – I was one of his future farmers of America he dedicated his life to teaching.
Dad, even without you saying much, those were mornings when my every sense was awakened. I’ve never forgotten that- the best start to the day.
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