Continue reading]]> distracted by the antics of sun and clouds
sashaying in and out, around and under each other
it was the quiet that eventually stopped me mid-stride
no wind whispering in the pines
no cars on their hurried way
no people walking the dog
exchanging greetings as we pass
no chain saws, leaf blowers or hammers at work
even the birds have silenced their song
gone off to seek shelter from the storm
that is soon to come

what of those for whom there is no shelter
places that have offered safety become targets
collateral damage dismissed by outrage
human shields left unprotected
in the very places they seek refuge
with bulls-eyes on their backs they run for cover
when there is no cover certain to stand

the sparrows find shelter under God’s wing
not so for too many of the children of God’s heart
is that just the empty echo of ancient lullabies
is there any shelter to be had for them in this world
any reason to sing in an existence turned toxic
where are the hands to put skin on the promise
stand the timbers and stretch a tarp
fill a bowl and bake some flatbread
offer a simple, precious cup of clean water

is it naive to dream of a world
where children have enough to eat
can rest in peace
rise to a morning when sun and clouds distract with their play

Continue reading]]> I’ve stuck to my rut far too long
glued to the familiar lane
I’ve followed what I know
played by the tried and true
handing off adventure and exploration to my companion

until the day I veered onto the exit
off the highway, we dove to the canyon floor
navigation called repeatedly
urging reason
turn around and turn back
yet we pressed on

snatching glimpses of the divided highway suspended above
we plodded along the road long ago replaced
through pastures, past the occasional yard
we began to climb and wind our way up
then up some more

the map showed a preschooler’s scribble
that was actually switchback after switchback
stacked breathlessly on top of each other
we crept around corners and climbed some more
shying away from the precipice to my right
I claimed my half of the road in the middle
feverishly hoping no one had chosen to descend
to twist their way into my lap

overflowing with apology
for the spur of the moment plunge
I pressed on
eventually beginning to breathe as I drove
and then smile
my way to the top

life really is richer
outside the rut

Continue reading]]> Owning and operating a farm was his life’s dream. For years, my father worked for others. Then he worked for a dairy cooperative, serving those who farmed. Finally in 1957 the dream was realized with the purchase of 200 acres and a string of buildings tied together as one. The house stood at one end, the barn at the other, with garage, chicken coop, pig sty and storage in between, and the hay stacked on top of the milking department. Morning and night, he walked the cows to the trough so they could have a drink, then filled cans with milk and carried them across the yard to a cooler where they waited for pickup. In between, he headed off to work. Every spring, sap was brought in from the woods and boiled on the kitchen stove for endless hours on end, until finally it was declared to have become maple syrup. Vacations were for haying, with the help of a neighbor who had the equipment we had yet to acquire. Happy was the day he set the job aside and claimed the luxury of farming full time. Gladder yet the milestone of bidding the mortgage farewell.

Twenty years later he passed it along. Ten acres gifted to each of us, the rest sold to his first born, the one taking the reins and tending the farm. In six quick years, in 1984, he was gone. His heart gave out and his departure was abrupt, yet he left with the satisfaction that his dream lived on.

The youngest divested first. His life led him to love and a different farm hundreds of miles away, so in the practicality we were raised with, he found a buyer and released his claim.

In the meantime, the eldest farmed on. He added to the barn that Dad built and expanded the herd. The house burned to the ground so he built another on the other side of the yard. He built a sugar house and stretched tubing from tree to tree, harvesting the gift that beckoned. When the operational obligations of running the farm refused to come within shouting distance of income for months on end, he sold the herd, hit the road and took to helping others. Because farming’s in his blood, it was only a matter of time before a new herd arrived and a down-scaled enterprise began. A divorce settlement carved off the prime parcel of orchard and meadow, and a new marriage – to a woman who already had a farm – expanded the complicating, promising possibilities. Eventually the sugar house needed too much work to be reasonable, and for a time he sold the sap to a neighboring farmer, and later sold the trees and the land from which they grew. In time, the wife’s farm was deemed to better meet their needs, and so the house, barn and land that remained were sold to a family in search of a home.

And so, at the end of the day, I hold the final piece. A rectangle of land my mother disparaged for the slope, scrub brush and swamp; a parcel I love for the clearing, cellar hole and spring. I’ve known for years we’ll never build on it, but still we’ve held on, paid our taxes and occasionally visited. Why? Because we could, and our taxes supported our nieces’ education. Because of our embrace of a sacred gift. Because it’s a piece of home. Part of my Dad. A reminder of where I come from. And yet, to everything there is a season, and now, it seems the time has come to let it go.

Today I wait, knowing the deal is done and the check is in the mail, while grief tinged with wisps of guilt hovers close. I hope my Dad would approve that we’re tending to business, while being stunned at the price today’s market assigned. I pray he knows the value of the gifts he gave, ones that have burrowed deeper than the land ever could. The priority of family. The importance of hard work. The value of a job well done. The character demonstrated in callous crusted hands with dirt under the fingernails. Our responsibility to respect, protect and delight in the land. The gift of laughter and the grace of greeting strangers as friends. A willingness to dance, and always, the absolutely essential work of pursuing our dreams.

Continue reading]]> Beloved One, this letting go, sitting back, putting my feet up thing is harder than I anticipated. What was I expecting? Do I not remember who I am or where I come from?

Remind me again that I have already placed in your loving heart and capable hands the dear ones for whom I most recently cared. Hold them, reassure them, equip and empower them to continue to be the People of God you anointed long ago. Steer them into wise choices, prompt them into daring possibilities, infiltrate their sleep with provocative dreams, accompany them into the new land that lies ahead.

Help me rest in the shelter of your wings, the comfort of a porch swing, the consuming adventures lurking in the pages of books, the soul-salving power of song. Massage my spirit with your loving grace, until I again pulse with your peace, walk in your hope, live from your love.

What will you do with me in the great unknown of unexplored territory that lies ahead?

Releasing my aspirations to save the world, help me to simply love it. Remove cataracts and help me see around floaters, that I might recognize you in the faces of all your children and the magnificent, minuscule wonders of planet earth. Bridge the gaps in my hearing and set my ears to tingling that I might hear you in the sounds of silence, the voice of my partner, the call of my neighbor, the anguished cry of creation. When the time is right, give me a hand to hold, a heart to love, a life to accompany.

Together, may we set a table and receive the guests of your choosing. Be present among us as we break bread and raise a cup, swap stories, share dreams, conspire together to heal the world.

Keep me ever mindful of the gift of this time, the luxury of a clean calendar, the privilege of resources enough to step away and sit down. May I drink deeply of its riches, share freely from its produce.

Receive my heart’s prayer, offered in the name and for the sake of Love. Amen.

Continue reading]]> Create in me a clean heart, O God… (Psalm 51:10a)

What is a clean heart, anyway? Is it the absence of raspberry jam and grapefruit juice splatter? Brownie batter or coffee? Maybe this prayer invites God to scour away the toilet bowl ring that’s built up around the edges or the accumulation of kitchen grease that’s barely noticeable until suddenly it’s everywhere. And are we talking lemon juice sparkling, bleached white shining, good as new pristine perfect? Seems to me that some of the fingerprints and scar tissue on my heart make me who I am; maybe even the nose splotches on windows that broadcast cats live here. Does all of that have to go? Just how clean is clean?

I don’t see God looking for pure and unblemished in any of us, in large part because God’s a realist. And since God works so ingeniously with our wounds and warts, turning them into gifts and graces, I don’t tend to see God being inclined to banish all of the residue and remnants we’ve collected over the years. But I do think there’s a lot of territory to be explored in asking how receptive our hearts are to God: are noxious weeds choking out the good intentions of kindness and care? Do we harbor a stockpile of toxins that seep into the ground water and turn the beautiful bitter? Are our hearts parched and hard-packed soil in need of an infusion of air and nutrients? Do stains block rays of light trying to bring hope? Does an abundance of clutter create tripping hazards and prevent an easy response to the call of love?

Every year, this Psalm is part of the scripture line-up that welcomes us to Lent. This year, rather than giving anything up or taking something on, I’m inclined to think and pray, and hopefully write, about how I can make my heart more available to God, and as a result, more available to others. Sappy as it may sound, I really do believe that what the world needs most right about now is love. How better to get started than to invite God in for a season of deep and devoted heart cleaning?

Continue reading]]> Written for Epiphany Worship for the UCC in Wallace, Idaho

Look who finally made their way into the creche – and with three days to spare, no less! I know it may feel like they’ve been delayed at the airport or stuck in traffic, distracted by a scenic overlook or blue light special, but we forget these folks had a long way to travel. They had gifts to assemble, camels to saddle up, borders to cross, prophecies to untangle, languages to learn. All of which leads me to wonder why they bothered in the first place. What was so compelling about that star that they packed up and headed into the night, unsure of where they were going, and when – or if – they might return.

I remember my last semester of seminary when, like all of my classmates, I was scrambling to find a job. Committed to being faithful to the call I had accepted from God, I threw open the perimeters and boldly announced I would go wherever God wanted me to go. Absolutely certain that that would be Vermont. I sent my profile to churches across the land, and then whittled the options down to a short list of two possibilities in Vermont, one in Maine and one in Wisconsin (I have no idea how that one snuck in, but it did…) I remember letters and phone calls from the search committee in Maine and then telling my friends, I was going to say no, too many potatoes and trees, too few people. And then there was another phone call. When I hung up, I turned around and said, guess who’s going to Maine? Why? I could tell you about interests and Bible Studies, outdoor adventures and compelling chairperson sweet talk, but mostly it came down to knowing this was a road I needed to travel, a call God wanted me to embrace, a star that compelled me to come.

It really isn’t about packing bags, leaving home and heading out for destinations unknown; but it is about living with eyes wide open to the stirring presence of God. About seeing the stars that infiltrate and soften our darkness with the message that a new day’s dawning. About recognizing the holy when it surfaces among the ordinary, bringing with it the melody of wonder. And about being willing to push ourselves out of the easy chair of familiar thoughts and well-worn routines to go in search of unprecedented possibilities, unrecognized companions, unbelievably good news. The journey will change us, but God and the Child beckon us to come. To see. To worship. To offer our gifts. And then to go home by another way, sharing the story of all we’ve seen and heard, reflecting the light that has led us this far.

Continue reading]]> Written for Christmas Eve Worship for the UCC in Wallace, Idaho

As we have on each of the Sundays of Advent, we stop by the creche on our way into worship. Not everyone has arrived yet, but the star of the show is finally here: baby Jesus, still red from birth, eyes yet to open, is asleep on the straw. He’s surrounded by farm hands and shepherds, lullabied by the baaing of sheep and cud chewing of cows, with harmony added by a chorus of the heavenly host, a night light provided by the star keeping vigil in the sky. Mom is adjusting in search of a comfortable position, while Step-Dad stands guard, alert to every sound, determined to keep his family safe.

I have to tell you that I spent my growing up years in and out of the barn, and while I have seen newborns asleep on the hay, never a human one. Calves, sure, their legs too weak for them to stand. Even kittens scrambling about here and there, bumping into things, head butting mom for a drink, but not a human baby lying on the straw. I have been to mom’s bedside on the day of giving birth, even got to hold my grandson that first day – and it was no small privilege that I was the only visitor welcomed into that sacred space. But this… this birthing day is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Such a strange collection of visitors and in such an unlikely place.

My friends, this is the good news of God coming among us. Not in a palace or with a show of force, and with neither pretension or protection. God comes in out of the way places and to the unnoticed and overlooked. Essential workers who live in the shadows, unseen by us until we need something cleaned or collected. The homeless who shuttle between friends’ couches and a car’s back seat. The newly unemployed who wait on hold, trying to secure benefits, and then move on to a place in line, waiting for a box of food. God comes, planting hope, breathing peace, extending welcome, sharing love, spreading light. God is born among us, and invites us to come and see, come and rejoice, come and worship.

Continue reading]]> Written as part of an Advent Daily Devotional for the UCC in Wallace, Idaho

Eight hours and twenty-seven minutes is all the daylight we get today. Just a smidgeon more than one-third of the twenty-four hours in this day. Sounds about right, given all the illness, death, division, restrictions, precautions, disappointments and down right destitution that are swirling about. Darkness abounds. We’ve also sunk to the average cold point of the year, and while I’m as big a fan of winter as any, I prefer it with a hint of sun and a coating of snow. Picky, I know, but damp and dark just don’t do much to warm my heart or lift my spirits.

You don’t need me to tell you that these are hard days, but for a lot of reasons that may not be obvious, I do keep telling you. First of all, to give you permission to feel what you feel and be where you are. And to encourage you to not try to pretty it up, resist slapping a smile and a bow over the blahs and tears, but to sit with it and be gentle with yourself. There’s an abundance of grief and loss floating about, even for those of us who can’t name the person we’re missing. We’ve all lost more this year than is immediately obvious, and we need to hold that loss tenderly – in ourselves as well as others.

The good news is that it won’t always be this way. By Christmas Day, we’ll have one more minute of sunlight than we do today. I was a little surprised to learn that the turn-about happens that slowly, but I’m clinging to it just the same. And to the confidence that by March, I’ll be reveling in lengthening days. The roll out of the vaccines won’t happen much faster than the return of the light, but it’s coming too. None of this will last forever; trust and hope carry me through, especially on the days when evidence is in short supply.

And then there’s God, who refused to let the beloved people sit in the dark by themselves, without comfort or the ability to find the light, and so God came among us to help us find our way. God still comes, sometimes in microscopic shifts and changes that we only recognize when we see the accumulation in the rearview mirror. And sometimes in the bold and dramatic, like this year when Saturn and Jupiter align in just the right way at just the right time, and God and the universe conspire to deliver the gift of a rare Christmas star, not seen since 1226. Apparently, they agree this might be a year that calls for a once-in-800-years declaration of hope and deliverance, promise and peace.

My friends, the light does indeed shine in the darkness and the darkness has not, will not, cannot overcome it. Thanks be to God.

Continue reading]]> Written for Advent Worship with the UCC in Wallace, Idaho

Mary has taken her place in the creche alongside Joseph and the shepherds. Not to sound too critical, but this set has her looking about as meek and mild as every other set I’ve ever seen. My experience of visiting new mothers has taught me that moments after childbirth is not the preferred time for a photo op, especially not a photo that will get global and eternal circulation. But add to that the grueling journey to Bethlehem, getting stuck in the barn with a feeding trough as a bed for her newborn and stinky old field hands as their first visitors. I don’t know of any 13 or 14 year old girl who would endure all of that and come through looking meek and mild. Your imagination can color in how she’s more likely to look and just what she might be about to say.

I’ve cherished Mary for a very long time; her willingness and ability to open her life so completely to God has impressed me deeply. Her words, here am I, the servant of the Lord, have been a kind of mantra for me. But I admit that open door, unconditional invitation isn’t quite as appealing as it once was. As I age, I’m becoming less eager to have my life disrupted, to say nothing of turned upside down and inside out. Don’t get me wrong: I’m still up for a lot of adventure, maybe even risk, but preferably on my terms and of my choosing. But Y’all come in now and do whatever you think best, let me help in whatever way I can, well, I need to work some more on that one.

What do you think happened in Mary between her initial question to Gabriel of, how can this be? to her response not long after, when she said, count me in, for nothing will be impossible for God? Her pregnancy as an unwed teenager, especially in a small village where everybody knew everything, put her life at risk. By the time she got to Elizabeth’s door she was singing a song, the Magnificat, about her understanding of what God was up to, it’s words so powerful that it’s been banned in countless places in modern history. Like Argentina: when the mothers of the disappeared plastered the city plaza with the Magnificat’s vision of hope, the ruling junta declared it was too dangerous a thing for public consumption. And when the British ruled India, they didn’t even want it sung in churches. I don’t know who she was before Gabriel visited her, but I know once she said yes to God, there was no stopping her. She was on fire with her love for God and her passion for God’s people. How much of that love am I prepared to let into my life? How ready are we to deliver it into God’s world?