A Canticle for Advent: Here with Us

rainbowsunrise2
It’s still a mystery to me
That the hands of God could be so small,
How tiny fingers reaching in the night
Were the very hands that measured the sky
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Heaven’s love reaching down to save the world
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Son of God, Servant King,
You’re here with us
You’re here with us
It’s still a mystery to me, oh,
How His infant eyes have seen the dawn of time
How His ears have heard an angel’s symphony,
But still Mary had to rock her Savior to sleep
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Heaven’s love reaching down to save the world
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Son of God, Servant King
Here with us
You’re here with usJesus the Christ, born in Bethlehem
A baby born to save, to save the souls of man
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Heaven’s love reaching down to save the world
Hallelujah, hallelujah
Son of God, Servant King
You’re here with us
You’re here with us
~Joy Williams

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XlRssS2Xs0Y

2 …because of the truth, which lives in us and will be with us forever:  Grace, mercy and peace from God the Father and from Jesus Christ, the Father’s Son, will be with us in truth and love.
2 John 1: 2-3

Beyond all question, the mystery from which true godliness springs is great:
He appeared in the flesh,
was vindicated by the Spirit,
was seen by angels,
was preached among the nations,
was believed on in the world,
was taken up in glory.

1 Timothy 3:16

How can God With Us not be a profound mystery?
From our myopic view of our one little corner of existence,
can we possibly comprehend how the Creator of all things is born to one of us?

In our wonder at what has happened
and continues to happen among us,
at the promise reaching down from heaven
to be held and rocked in our arms,
can we not accept and believe~
His Truth has come to dwell within us forever.

 

 

Listening to Rain

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forests, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the bridges, and the talk of the water courses everywhere in the hollows! Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen.
~ Thomas Merton

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

Smiling the Clouds Away

rainbow8253

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life.
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.
~Lord Byron

photo by Conor Larkin of Wiser Lake Chapel outdoor evening worship at the Rodenberger farm
photo by Conor Larkin of Wiser Lake Chapel outdoor evening worship at the Rodenberger farm

God put the rainbow in the clouds, not just in the sky… We can say “I can be a rainbow in the cloud for someone yet to be.”  That may be our calling.
~ Maya Angelou

 

Sun and Rain

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten

rainbow11Spring is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine…
~ Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

Some days, this time of year, the skies are gray with indecision and it doesn’t rain nor does the sun ever shine, a truly lukewarm day.  The days that are most interesting, however, are those that declare themselves “clear” or “soaking wet” and then switch somewhere in the middle.  The transition itself is stormy.

Yesterday started with pouring rain — no drizzle this — with no hope of clearing, no peek of blue sky, no mountains on the horizon as they were covered in gray cotton wool.

Then in a mighty switch around noon, a wind blew in and took the gray away with a sweep of the hand.  The skies cleared, the mountains reappeared with even more snow cover than the day before, and everything around shone with the glistening wash that had taken place.

It is spring, when all things are reborn wet and shimmering, sun shining amid the rain and rain drenching irresistible light.

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

Reciting Spring

photo by Dan Gibson
photo by Dan Gibson
photo by Dan Gibson
photo by Dan Gibson

Spring has returned.  The Earth is like a child that knows poems.
–  Rainer Maria Rilke

Thank God
the earth remembers the meter and rhythm of spring
and annually recites it from memory:

the tease of sun
warming cheeks,
a lapse back
into rain storms,
bulbs bursting
through frost,
surprised by snowflakes
maybe ice,
then a rainbow
through slanted light,
a few hardy buds
swell to blossom,
bees buzz sleepy,
all the while more rain,
painting green, always green
growing burgeoning flourishing.

The poem of earth reciting spring
declines to force a rhyme,
its buried words watered warm
to blossom just in time.

photo by Dan Gibson
photo by Dan Gibson
photo by Dan Gibson
photo by Dan Gibson

 

 

Explore the Neighborhood

photo by Nate Gibson
photo by Nate Gibson

Some unwonted, taught pride diverts us from our original intent, which is to explore the neighborhood, view the landscape, to discover at least where it is that we have been so startlingly set down, if we can’t learn why.
~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek

As much as I want to know how and why of my life, I must settle for what and where.   As I grow older, more and more I dwell on who.

I am here to explore, to notice what happens around me and to me, to record it in words that will live beyond my time, to express unceasing gratitude to who has done this wondrous thing I am witness to.

It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood (thanks, Fred Rogers).

Reaching for the Rainbow

Mt. Baker at sunrise

The true harvest of my daily life is somewhat as intangible and indescribable as the tints of morning or evening.  It is a little star-dust caught, a segment of the rainbow which I have clutched.
~Henry David Thoreau

Painting the indescribable with words necessitates subtlety, sound and rhythm on a page.  The best word color portraits I know are by Gerard Manley Hopkins who created  through startling combinations:  “crimson-cresseted”, “couple-colour”, “rose-moles”, “fresh-firecoal”, “adazzle, dim”, “dapple-dawn-drawn”, “blue-bleak embers”, “gash gold-vermillion”.

I understand, as Thoreau does,  how difficult it is to harvest a day using ordinary words.   Like grasping ephemeral star trails or the transient rainbow that moves away as I approach, what I hold on the page is intangible yet very real.

I will keep reaching for the rainbow, searching for the best words to preserve my days and nights forever, for my someday greatgrandchildren, or whoever might have the patience to read.

After all, in the beginning was the Word, and there is no better place to start.

Mt. Baker at sunset
photo by Josh Scholten

Blown Away

photo by Nate Gibson

“Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath.”
Annie Dillard

It isn’t possible.  The five year old me who had a sudden terrifying revelation that I would some day cease to be has become the almost fifty eight year old me who is more terrified at the head long rush of life than of its end.  The world hurtles through space and time at a pace that leaves me breathless.  Throughout my fifty-plus years, I have felt flung all too frequently,  bruised and weary from the hurry and hubbub.

Good thing there is someone else breathing each breath for me or I would have never made it another minute.  I’d be down and gone in a heartbeat.

Now comes a few days of breathing space, taking a respite from routine.  I’m lifted lighter, drifting where I’m blown, less weighted with the next thing to do and the next place to be.

Instead I just be and always will be.  Be blown away unending.  Blown by breath that loves, fills and nurtures, its generous promise hopeful and fulfilled.

The old me simply ceases to be.  Blown away.

If only the five year old me could have known.

“Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.”
— Mary Oliver

photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Nate Gibson

Grounded Rainbow



Fifty weeks of dirt rows
Plain and unnoticed.
Could be corn, could be beans
Could be anything;
Drive-by fly-over dull.

Yet April ignites an explosion:
Dazzling retinal hues
Singed, crying
Grateful tears for such as this
Rainbow on Earth

Transient, incandescent
Brilliance hoped for.
Remembered in dreams,
Promises realized,
Housed in crystal before shattering.

(thanks to Josh Scholten for photos of the Skagit Valley tulip fields)
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