The rising sun had crowned the hills, And added beauty to the plain; O grand and wondrous spectacle! That only nature could explain.
I stood within a leafy grove, And gazed around in blissful awe; The sky appeared one mass of blue, That seemed to spread from sea to shore.
Far as the human eye could see, Were stretched the fields of waving corn. Soft on my ear the warbling birds Were heralding the birth of morn.
While here and there a cottage quaint Seemed to repose in quiet ease Amid the trees, whose leaflets waved And fluttered in the passing breeze.
O morning hour! so dear thy joy, And how I longed for thee to last; But e’en thy fading into day Brought me an echo of the past.
‘Twas this,—how fair my life began; How pleasant was its hour of dawn; But, merging into sorrow’s day, Then beauty faded with the morn. ~Olivia Ward Bush-Banks “Morning on Shinnecock”
The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn, As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on, Afar o’er life’s turrets and vales does it roam In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home. ~Georgia Douglas Johnson from The Heart of a Woman and Other Poems
I heard the voice of Jesus say, “I am this dark world’s Light; Look unto Me, thy morn shall rise, And all thy day be bright.” I looked to Jesus, and I found In Him my Star, my Sun; And in that light of life I’ll walk, Till trav’ling days are done. ~Horatius Bonar
I am always wistful at the end of the day as I watch the sun drop lower in the sky. Sometimes its descent paints an unforgettable palette and sometimes it drops out of sight with bare notice it is disappearing.
I consider, very briefly, whether I will see another sunrise and so I must reconcile myself to the darkness.
Yet the Lord sends the stars from afar to light the night, along with a waxing and waning moon. I am not left without hope, seeing His Light reflected in the heavens.
With the rise of the sun in the morning, I am given another chance. I am given new sight, new breath, a new day to try to set things around me right. And so it shall be until my traveling days are done.
Until that day, I follow the Light, missing it when it fades from my view and rejoicing when it returns to light my path.
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…
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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
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Every time you leave home, Another road takes you Into a world you were never in.
New strangers on other paths await. New places that have never seen you Will startle a little at your entry. Old places that know you well Will pretend nothing Changed since your last visit.
When you travel, you find yourself Alone in a different way, More attentive now To the self you bring along, Your more subtle eye watching You abroad; and how what meets you Touches that part of the heart That lies low at home:
How you unexpectedly attune To the timbre in some voice, Opening in conversation You want to take in To where your longing Has pressed hard enough Inward, on some unsaid dark, To create a crystal of insight You could not have known You needed To illuminate Your way.
When you travel, A new silence Goes with you, And if you listen, You will hear What your heart would Love to say.
A journey can become a sacred thing: Make sure, before you go, To take the time To bless your going forth, To free your heart of ballast So that the compass of your soul Might direct you toward The territories of spirit Where you will discover More of your hidden life, And the urgencies That deserve to claim you.
May you travel in an awakened way, Gathered wisely into your inner ground; That you may not waste the invitations Which wait along the way to transform you.
May you travel safely, arrive refreshed, And live your time away to its fullest; Return home more enriched, and free To balance the gift of days which call you. ~ John O’Donohue from To Bless The Space Between Us
We are out of the habit of traveling after remaining home for over a year waiting out the pandemic. So a two-day road trip to visit a grandchild takes on nearly mythic proportions: all senses on alert – wondering at new sights and sounds and smells, traveling in “an awakened way.”
One doesn’t have to journey beyond borders to feel like the “other” – a grocery store in rural Wyoming can seem just as foreign when we are perceived as the strangers by our appearance. Clearly we were “out of towners” – driving a Japanese-made hybrid sedan, not a F150 pickup, wearing Keen shoes, not cowboy boots, wearing COVID masks even though fully vaccinated out of respect for others while everyone else is unmasked and clearly suspicious of our apparent “virtual signaling.”
When others see me as a stranger, I in turn see myself differently when I’m not at home. Out “there,” I am seen as a gray-haired senior citizen who isn’t completely comfortable with where I am going or where I’ve been; nothing is familiar so I am slightly disoriented and unsure of myself and what might happen next.
At home, I’m still young in my head if not considerably older and fluffier in body, usually confident about what will happen next in my day. Traveling takes me out of myself and my precious routine, picks me up and puts me where I don’t expect to be. I’m transformed and enlightened even when feeling a bit out of time and place.
It is a good thing to see oneself with different eyes and not always know what will happen next. An adventure around every corner is just fine for a week or so. But coming home from a journey is the truest gift. I look to the east and to the west on our rural country road and think about who and what lies beyond our farm on a hill, knowing that I’m always better for having ventured out to see what I could see.
And even better for having this place to come home to.
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Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. ~Christina Rossetti, “Up-Hill” from Rossetti: Poems
Nothing is quite as comforting as a room to stay and bed to sleep in after a long day of traveling. At times, we’re not sure we’ll get there before dark. The roads stretch ahead for miles, the scenery seems foreign to our eyes.
So we hope for a quiet place to stay where others are welcoming.
Yet there is rest. Yes, there is rest for the weary and travel-worn. There are beds for each. A place to rest our heads.
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Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed. ~G.K. Chesterton from Tremendous Trifles
But a dragon lies in ambush for the traveler; take care he does not bite you and inject you his poison of unbelief. Seeing this numerous company winning salvation, he selects and stalks his prey. In your journey to the Father of souls, your way lies past that dragon. How shall you pass him? You must have “your feet stoutly with the gospel of peace,” so that, even if he does bite you, he may not hurt you. ~St. Cyril of Jerusalem
<regarding St. Cyrus’s story>: No matter what form the dragon may take, it is of this mysterious passage past him, or into his jaws, that stories of any depth will always be concerned to tell, and this being the case, it requires considerable courage at any time, in any country, not to turn away from the storyteller. ~Flannery O’Connor from A Good Man is Hard to Find
<Here be dragons> was any place on the ancient maps that was unknown and unexplored- a place to avoid at all costs, or — for the daring and carefree, exactly the place to explore.
Here be dragons marks the remainder of our days that dwell at the edge of life’s roadmap ~ unknown and unexplored ~ and too often full of peril.
So many dragons to pass by, ready to swallow us whole if we make a wrong turn, or singe our britches if we stray off the map.
So many dark valleys and impenetrable forests to pass through. so many mysteries unsolved, so many stories of fateful journeys told, and above all, we must listen to what they have to teach us: try not to stray from the well-worn lighted path of the faithful who have managed to stay out of the jaws of the dragons just so they could tell their story and save our souls.
A new book available from Barnstorming! To order, click here
Go into the woods and tell your story to the trees. They are wise standing in their folds of silence among white crystals of rock and dying limbs. And they have time. Time for the swaying of leaves, the floating down, the dust. They have time for gathering and holding the earth about their feet. Do this. It is something I have learned. How they will bend down to you so softly. They will bend down to you and listen. ~Laura Foley, “The Quiet Listeners” from Syringa
When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, “Stay awhile.” The light flows from their branches. And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say, “and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.” ~Mary Oliver “When I am Among the Trees”
It seems I’m perpetually wandering in the figurative forest of my days on this earth, unsure where I’m heading, struggling to figure out where I’ve been. The trees want to hear my story and like few others, they listen.
I follow a path laid out before me, keeping my head down to make sure I don’t trip over a root or stumble on a rock, when around and above me are the clues to who and where I am and where I’m going.
So I stop, stand still, breathe deeply of this life, looking up at these trees who urge me to shine no matter where I am.
My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this you will lead me by the right road, though I may know nothing about it. Therefore will I trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone. Amen. ~Thomas Merton “Prayer” from Thoughts in Solitude
kyrie eleison, have mercy, christe eleison, have mercy.
We are all alike in this one way when we can barely agree about anything else – We are all lost, wandering weeping wretched
It is when I am shown mercy that I become mercy, loving where others show hate giving where others take away building up where others tear down.
We are found: we become Christ where we live because He renews in us through His sacrifice a new life in Him.
God called Abram to leave the familiar and go, go on a road he would make by going, to a place he would know by finding.
Jesus led Nicodemus to the threshold of a birth, a newness he could only know by going through it.
Only what’s behind us, not ahead, keeps us from going on, from entering the impossible womb of starting new.
The stones of disappointment in your pockets, the grave marker of the old life, they can’t come with you.
The path is not a test. It’s our freedom. Many a prisoner has looked into the tunnel, the Beloved waiting in the light, and said no.
Where is the Spirit calling you, the wind blowing? Where is the thin place between your habits and a new birth?
These pangs, this heavy breathing: the Beloved is trying to birth you. Let it happen. ~Steve Garnaass-Holmes “A new birth”
Like most people, I cling fast to the safe and familiar, sometimes wishing to retreat back to what feels most secure and safest. Yet, it is an impossible womb that would allow me back – it is clear I am meant to be fully launched, for better or worse. So carrying my checkered history stuffed deeply in my pockets, I embark on this life’s journey led by the Spirit and blown by His breath, uncertain where it will take me or how long it takes to get there.
There is an unsurpassed freedom in the path from womb to tomb; if I let His breath carry me, I’ll go so far beyond the place where my bones someday are laid.
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts. I was better after I had cried, than before– more sorry, more aware of my own ingratitude, more gentle. ~Charles Dickens as “Pip” in Great Expectations
Jesus wept. ~John 11:35
Today, Ash Wednesday, is the beginning of Lent (an old English word for “lengthening”).
This six week observance humbles the hardest of hearts by readying us to walk through the dusty wilderness of our sin and brokenness.
Over the coming weeks, I learn again of Christ’s traveling the parched road to the cross. His tears become a cleansing rain — tears of sorrow and sacrifice meant to renew and restore the earthly dust beneath His feet – the dust from which His Father formed us and to which we will return.
This journey leads us through the ashes of our bitterness, pride, and ingratitude. We follow this difficult and arduous wilderness road, fitting our foot to each tear-stained print He left behind, knowing where ultimately it must take us.
VERSE 1 It is Ash Wednesday’s early morn. The old, the young, the newly born Await the mark of Adam’s dust To seal their wills in Jesus’ trust.
VERSE 2 Prepared to walk the Lenten trail They face death’s dark and shadowed vale. Rememb’ring Christ who led the way They bravely march beneath his sway.
VERSE 3 You came from dust and dust would be Without the Great Son’s victory. The gift is free yet must be claimed By goodness lived and evil tamed.
VERSE 4 It is Ash Wednesday’s early morn. The old, the young, the newly born Await the mark of Adam’s dust To seal their wills in Jesus’ trust.