How To Acquire a New Name
It happened so quickly that I still have trouble remembering all the details. One moment I was just "Grandpa," and in the very next instant, in the twinkling of a five year olds eye, I was the "Leaping Grandpa." That is a name I cherish. In fact, it is more than a name. It is a title. Of course no one would use it to introduce me. Can you imagine someone saying, "Now I would like to present Will Spencer, Leaping Grandpa!" "No way!" the younger generation would say. It is a private title, known only to a few: my first grandson, his Nan-ee, a few close relatives, and you. You won’t tell, will you? But first I should tell you how it happened.
It was after a move to a new house. One of the prizes of the move was to be a bit closer to children and grandchildren. So I was able to pick up the thread of adventure begun some time before with my oldest grandson. Josh is an adventurer. We have shared many adventures. We have explored the dark woods behind the house. We found the little rock creek and the deer home. We found the "bloody place" where animals had fought. We have explored other places too, like the zoo and the children’s carousel and the Boat Park – where, for a wonderful evening, we were both captains of a pirate ship. So the new house provided new opportunities.
We were poking around in the boxes in the basement. (We were still in the boxes in the basement stage!) We found a fishing rod and fishing net. We found an old bass caught some years before and mounted on an oak board. (That was to be the source of other adventures later.) But just now Josh looked at the net and decided to catch me in it. That was the beginning.
Soon we were in full scale chase in and around and through the boxes. At one point I was running at full "grandpa" speed and came face to face with a box blocking my path. Without a thought I simply jumped over the card board box, and continued running, until I heard the words unforgettable. Josh stopped at the box, looked at me and said, "Wow! You’re a leaping grandpa!" And there it is, for all time, named beyond my years, beyond the days, for ever and always in the eyes of a five year old and his loving grandfather, fixed in time is the moment of the name. I shall always remember. (Sometimes, I confess, I feel a bit more like a "creeping" grandpa; but not that day.)
Here, then, are the reflections of a leaping grandpa, rooted in time and memory, meditations of the days of the journey to forever. May they add to your joy, give you a bit of hope to sustain you. May these words remind you of the good days of this wonderful journey toward home.
Willard Spencer
Many Topics Follow: simply click on the
one you want to read.
The Waves
of Time Remembering
Summer Winter to Spring Winter Thoughts
After the snow Reflections on an old house The Time Between Sunset and Night
Different Lights Nature's Gifts Christmas Songs
The Cardinal at Christmas Christmas Lessons from a Squirrel Promises to Keep
The Blessing of Children and Light Footprints in the Snow A Little Patch of Ice
At Year's End Blizzards and Seed Catalogues Find a Minor Sun
Flowers and Love The Tenacity of an Oak When Did the Grass Turn Green
Flying Kites -- a Priceless Joy Laughter & Tears -- the Twins To See Again -- the second touch
Walking in Our Own Little Worlds Footprints by the Creek The Singer of Spring
People Who Are Hired Last Frost and the Dew Drop World Go Slowly in a Forest
God in a Bee Hive Butterfly Landing Reflections on a Bug
A Silvery Slice of Space Butterfly Convention Learning to Fly -- and Give
Real Kite Flying and Real Life Solitary Things Angel's Song
Stargazing Outside or Inside Raising an Ebenezer
Dog Days Remembering an Old House Faith and the Old Swimming Hole
Beauty in a River Bed An End for Everything Lovely September Days
The Beauty of Frost The Cicadas' Message
Black Marks and MeaningA Touch of Red -- the Seasons of Change
A Country Church and Eternity in Our Midst A Blue Stone, Pressure, and Creation Awaken the Beauty in the heartThe Night the Angels Came to Earth Rain, Thunder & Lightning A Kind Word for Inhibition
The Wounds of Light What the Little Squirrel Knew The Journey of a New Year
Music and Faith Wolf by the Fishing Hole What to Do During the Lenten Season
Describing Spring: Pictures or Words? Old Houses and New Life Pure Magic of Children and a Swing
Wildflowers and Visions Portrait of an Early Summer Day River "shut-ins" and Living Water
Eyes to See the Green in Winter Remembering Spring While Knee Deep in Winter
Stepping Back in Time by Wading in a Creek Through a Storm at Perche Creek Church
The Feeling of An Early Fall Hugging God Messages on a Snowy Night
The Arrival of Frost The Fall, The Ridgeline, and Permanent Things A Bone Yard of Dreams
A Ceiling Fan as a Time Machine Take the High Ground and Hold On The Clock Hand and the Best of Days
The Last Butterfly Hearing God in Sound and Silence Seized by the Silence
Windowless Rooms We Live in Little Worlds A Brand New Color: in a flower
Messages from the Salem Cemetery Tread Lightly in Little Rivers Dreams and Poems and Life Everlasting
The Little Eyes of Spring The Butterfly on the Casket Thankful for Music
In Praise of Laughter The World in a Creek Bed
Through the river riffle of another year. Some fast water . . holding on, senses forward, a tight grip on the canoe paddle. Some "deep holes" . . . where you may look up and down, as well as ahead. And always "the journey," around the next bend, eyes straining, looking for hidden rocks and hidden blessings, onward to the farthest shore.
Grateful for the warmth of our human fellowship, for the caring and support, for the pure love shown, for God's Grace leaping alive, rushing water over rocks, sun sparkled.
We thank You, Blessed God, for our life together, wing to wing, oar to oar, and for the journey. Continue Thy presence with us through the next riffle, the next turn, through storm and leaf dappled light. All Sufficient One, we leave behind false hopes and half dreams, and lean into the rushing stream with You.Peace and certainty be yours.
We sat around the fireplace, stirring the ashes of last summer’s adventures and found just enough coals to strike a memory fire. The flashing water and the squeals of glee came rushing into memory’s view. Gleaming little eyes and fish scales make joyful memories knee-deep in winter.
So we looked through our lures. Straightened up our tackle boxes and hoped for an early summer . . . eyeing ahead now . . . the little creek, the inner tubes, the bass, the old swimming hole, the trout. Even winter has its dreams of summer.
Then back to work and glacial cold. How will I explain that fishing lure firmly hooked in the old beach towel? Well, even dreams have their price.
Peace and Certainty be yours.
I sat on the deck and I looked long at the creek, out across the field, and up the valley where the morning mist had caught the rising sun. It was good to feel the warm (for winter) sun and hear the new notes in the bird songs. Sitting there, in one of those too rare moments of solitude, I reflected on the inter-weaving of life and death. It was right there before me . . . cold winter and warm spring, snow and thaw, brown leaves still clinging to the trees that would soon burst into green. I recalled the words of a fellow observer of creation: "You cannot have mountains and creeks without space, and space is a beauty married to a blind man. The blind man is freedom, or time, and he does not go anywhere without his great dog, Death." (Annie Dillard, Pilgrim, P. 180)
I looked again at the field and the
creek before me. Leaning forward, I heard, with my mind's ear, the water
swiftly running over the rocks and roots, on and on to some forever. And I
was certain I could hear a hound baying in the distance. Closing my eyes I
thanked God for His marvelous ordering of creation, for the timeless truths
in my own back yard, for the fact that He has told us where all rivers run
and where all roads end, that even the old dog Death is but a guide for the
journey home, and that all our times are in God’s hands.
Peace and hope be yours.
The hills are somber in gray. Sparse morning light collects in drops on the windows. No "bright shoots of morningtime," no radiance breaking over the hills. They are silent and wrapped in waiting. A little wind comes along and cat paws across the puddles. No songs are sung.
The shank of winter is an old gray dog gnawing on a bone.
"Be with us, Blessed One, in all our mornings. When the world is gloomy, start your hearth fire in the places of heart and mind's discontent. Stir the ashes of cold faith. Strike the stone, spark leaping, laughing into spirit flame, and we'll offer our little lights on Your altar, Holy One. No shadow hides Your sun."
Quick Quips:
Say to yourself: "I either up or getting up."
Say to yourself: "Don’t let the turkeys get you down."
Say to yourself: "Tie and knot and hang on."
The tide ebbs, and returns.
The morning sun fills every gloomy corner. All the shadows flee from God’s light.
Karl Barth said that it is not allowed not to hope.
Get out and do some good.
After the snow, spring sights.
I'm grateful today for sun after snow, for the brilliant, gleaming rays melting the ice off the streets and roofs of buildings. The snow slid off the church roof in great heaps, mini-avalanches, echoes of winter's power. Gutters drip slowly, producing icicles. But underneath the ground the seeds and spores and bulbs stir in the warm sun, in the lengthening of days which mark the Lenten season. In God's providence nature stirs, again reminding us of the sameness and the change in the perpetual revolution of days.
In the hush of a still winter day you hear the faint humming of spring. On the edge, the early edge, of late winter, the warm sun reminds us of things to come: of April's rill, and the melting of the snow and ice.
Listen for the songbird's call! Watch for the crocus bloom, the pussy willow, the Redbud, the jonquils and hyacinths, the last of the fire wood and the fireplace will at last be empty of embers.
Join me in gratitude to God, giver of seasons and sustainer of life. God, who is always enough, who gives us salvation through the Son, and who gives us quiet, sunny days in winter to reflect and remember God’s loving providence. May the mercy of the Almighty go with you this day.
The old folks had moved to town. The farm house stood empty, in a stand of bare trees and old memories . . . the rusty pump, broken down barn, the piece of rope on a tree limb that used to be a swing where children felt the wind rushing swift as swallows on the wing. More than wood and metal were being buried there by nature.
My eye caught the sun reflecting on the old window, still intact. How many little eyes had pressed close against that glass, properly fogged by the warm breath of childhood? Little blue and brown windows (For eyes too are windows!) looking for what the clear-paned glass would reveal . . . the first snow of winter, father coming home for supper. Older eyes also had looked out of that old window, eyes filled with tears of joy or sorrow. It was a place of vision, as windows always are.
On that cold day, with the north wind chilling to the
bone, I looked up to heaven through my spirit's window and thanked a Father
God who loves us in all seasons, who rejoices when our cup overflows, and
whose tears fall with ours. I looked to the eternal God who sees us always
through heaven's windows . . . God, who preserves cherished life and value
through all our changes. "Our times are in Thy hands, O Lord, and in
Thy presence is fullness of joy always."
The time between sunset and night
It's a strange time. It comes each day. Between the gold and amethyst of the sunset's last rays and the darkness of night there is that short time when it's not dark and not light. Eyes strain to focus . . . not quite dark . . . not quite light. A gray edging of time where we can briefly see the transition. When it's day it's day . . . night it's night. But in between we quickly sense the movement, the flow of one to the other.
There are such moments in our individual lives. Focus is difficult…lingering, waiting between two realities, each making a claim … a gray time in between. We have no choice as day goes to night. But in our lives we may choose the direction of the flow . . . toward darkness or light. For a time we may linger in the gray nothing of non-choice, living shades in a shadow world. But grays may choose. Choose the light . . . day breaks and shadows flee away.
And all the twinkling starry host: Jesus shines brighter. Jesus shines purer than all the angels heav’n can boast.Fair is the sunshine, fairer still the moonlight,
Words from the Munster Gesangbuch,1677
Different Lights ( for Christmas Time.)
Yes, it did look like it was made of spider web. He told me that it did, but eight year old’s observations are very imaginative, and I doubted secretly. But with the lights off and using only a flashlight, the glass hurricane lamp globes did look like spider webs. And the glass fireplace door reflected a red cat's eye. There were other wonders. How differently things looked in that light. That is true of other perspectives as well.
To see things differently sometimes requires a different light. There's star light and angel light, and stable light in a mother's eyes, and a baby, radiant with hope. the world surely looks different in that light. "O Blessed One, may we see things in a different light this Christmas. Show us, show us the Christ. Reveal to us the joy. May we see. This year, may we really see."
It's built in. The sun on frosty hills is a gift. The air to breathe, the earth on which to stand, and even the tiny violets in their winter death-sleep waiting for the spring to call them forth are all gifts. The moss that still gives green to our vision today, the bells ringing, colored lights recalling a star in a distant land, and even a smile . . . gifts . . . they're built into the nature of things.
We have a need to give. We find delight, echoing heavens, when we give. To open the heart to God and the hand to another is to be in tune with nature, and with arch-nature. Remember the greatest gift of all given at Christmas. Give, it's built in.
Light and Warmth to you all.
Songs are special at Christmas. Everyone sings. The little voices of the nursery children cadence "Jolly Old St. Nicholas". Their eyes sing too, with delight. Old Christmas music is resurrected for piano. Old phonograph albums are unearthed from a summers's burial . . . and music, music fills the air.
Sugar plums dance only at Christmas. Toy soldiers march a stilted step. And flowers waltz as mystery and awe return to a world starved for transcendence.
Some find it difficult to sing at Christmas. for some the old songs cannot be sung. For some the life and gaiety have fled. But there is one song everyone can always sing, the song sang first by angels, "Glory to God in the Highest . . . " the true Christmas carol. It was sung for you. It is to you, so you can always sing it. Unto you is born a Savior, Christ the Lord.
Let the song be sung. Let music fill the air. Let all be glad and golden. Let every heart rejoice.
Light and Warmth be yours in the Lord.
They were rose colored, not just pink, but rose. They filled the sky, catching the fading light, holding it in high beauty, reminding us, as night approaches, that the light will prevail. Rose colored clouds at sunset.
Just a small patch, dark green and growing when growth has failed else-where. Right there on the church lawn, a small spot of green grass in December. I walked carefully through it and thanked God for green, for growth, for grass in winter.
If you were still enough you could watch him watching you. He cocked his head questioningly. His song broke the silence, then bright red feathers blurred in flight and he was gone. A cardinal in the redbud tree.
They waited for your listening. If you charged on by with loud steps, slamming car doors, you would have thought the trees bare and empty. But for the bargain price of a little quiet listening, the leaves came alive with bird color and song. They were there in mid-morning sun, but to see them you had to be still.
Winter -- cold and ice, mufflers, gloves, coats, scarves and all the other inconveniences. But winter has it's consolations.
Light and Warmth to you all.
He just sat there and relaxed, soaking up the sun, oblivious to the seething surge of the human season we are all in. How could he do that? Doesn't he know that sunning is for summer? Hasn't he heard that the weeks before Christmas are supposed to be filled to the brim with activity? . . . cards to be written, packages to be mailed, did we hear from them last year . . . why weren't we invited . . . more punch and cookies . . . the dinner . . . the party . . . the play . . . the collapse.
But that little gray squirrel on my deck rail was content to sit still soaking up God's sunshine, quietly reveling in God's providential care. He probably doesn't know any better. But then, he could symbolize for us something that we should know.
Light and Warmth.
Understandably, my thoughts go at this time of the year to Robert Frost's poem. "Stopping By a Woods on a Snowy Evening". A certain line catches my attention and holds it for a brief examination:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
The first line of this excerpt is a good place to be . . . that is, enjoying the beauty of nature - the snow-covered trees, the moonlight on the snow, the frosty sunrise. It is good to appreciate God's creation, but you can't stay there.
We must live in line two. We have promises to keep. God, the Creator, calls us to be faithful to our promises. The real struggle in life (and the real joy) is in keeping our promises - to God, to His Church, to our loved ones, to others and ourselves. Wasn't it Thomas More in "A Man For All Seasons" who said that when a person takes a vow he holds his own life in his hand like water, and when we break our vows our life slips away and we have only empty hands"?
The third line is instructive also - miles to go - we are on a journey. But for now, reflect a moment, at the edge of the year, on your promises and hurry on to their keeping.
The Blessing of Children and Light
The final score was 14-14, a tie. After the game the players wrestled and rolled in the backyard, a boyish reveling in warm January sunshine. Football forgotten, they marched by the edge of the field to the fort. Built of boards and weeds, logs and imagination, soon they were lost in building and fixing (healthy and useful activities). They also engaged in pretend shooting and exploding (activities harder to justify). Sticks were grenades and guns, and a big stick was the laser cannon (a new one on me). It's interesting how war stirs the imagination easily, while peace requires much more effort. at any rate, for a time, my little boys and I were backyard soldiers.
I was paid well for my time - the great joy of being together with my sons, seeing the young imaginations working overtime, remembering how it was to be a boy. Then we received a bonus. At dusk a little shaft of light raised above the horizon in benediction to the day, and rays of color emanating from the growing light spread across the heavens painting pink and amethyst and then gold. We watched the sunset and trudged back to real things, the oldest thanking God for boys and fields and memory.
Light and Warmth to you.
It was a gift of the wind . . . two sets of prints, one smaller, one larger. They were going the same direction, side by side. "That must have been a mother and child", I thought. In my minds eye I could see them walking together. I could see the larger hand enclosing the smaller. The one leading the other. I thought of all that it takes to lead a child in a straight path. I thought of the sacrifices made for me, and the journey we now make with our children. Then clear as the sunrise over the river it came to me. There is always someone walking by our side. We are led, even on shadowy winter days, by the one who said, "I have called you by name, you are mine". I have loved you with an infinite love". The sacrifice that He made for you and me takes but a moment to accept, but it's worth a lifetime.
O yes, I saw the footprints in the light snow the east wind brought today, otherwise they would not have been seen. We don't see his footprints always, but they are there. The faithful one never forgets his own.
We thank you, Blessed One, for your loving presence. Journey with us. Lead us in straight paths on snowy days.
Light and Warmth to you.
Sometimes the greatest danger is in the lesser, the hidden. You would think that the real risks multiply when ice covers all, and statistically that may be so. But you are also more cautious, more wary of lots of ice. It's the tiny patch on the steps you have to watch for. I was reminded of that recently. I caught myself in time, but the lesson was clear . . . watch out for a little ice.
Is that not also true of other things? Of the big, blatant sins we are aware. It is the hidden, the unsensational, the little ice patch sins that trip us up.
Blessed One, save us from little sins, sensitize us to the tiny snares in our way. Now unto Him, Who is able to keep you from falling, be glory and honor, power and majesty, now and forever. Amen.
Light and Warmth in the Lord.
Days of snow and days of sun. The lengthening shadows remind us of year's end. Just ahead. Beyond two turkeys, fifteen bowl games, and a great haste. The ending beyond Advent, which reminds us of the ending, his coming again.
"The best days are the first to flee", the ancient said. Is it true that these are the best and busy days, so they flee? Do we lose the days in flight, drinking the water of forgetfulness, not really sensing life as it goes? Do we see the flow of the river we stand in?
The end will come. Like years end -- that temporal reminder of our eternal tasks. Are you ready for year's end? A few things to believe? A face to seek? Faith to seize? Isn't it time? Lord, save us from busyness and unawareness. Lord, save us to openness to You, to new life in Yours, to days alive in glorious Kingdom time. Sunlight and shadow, send us scurrying to Your throne.
Just when we were beginning to look beyond the pictures in the seed catalogues the stubborn season made it's stand. For a month now we've grown tomatoes and turnips, annuals and perennials, roses and radishes and rhubarb . . . in the mind, of course. Then when we look for the first hint of a change . . . for the redbuds and the pussy willows and the forsythia . . . not for buds but just a sign, eyeing the ground for green, skies, leaden, loose white and we're back to winter. Is it wrong to desire spring standing ankle deep in snow? I hope not.
Thus it is with our longings for You, Blessed God. The longing is a fulfillment. We reach out from our darkness and the reaching brings us closer to Your light. Our yearning for spring awakens the fragrance of lilac, real and refreshing. So our searching for You awakens, within us the blessedness of Your presence, real and most joyous. In winter we remember spring. In our need we remember You. Send us "bright shoots of everlastingness", glimpses of evergreen hills, and of You, Lord Most High, to grace these gray days of snow.
Light and Warmth to you.
He walked along the dark sidewalk in the chill of early winter until he was stopped by some strange shadows under a street light. Looking up he saw a spider, an orb weaving spider, weaving near the warmth and light of the street light. He brought a stepladder and climbed up to see . . . it was indeed a spider, who in winter, had found a minor sun and was still building in the face of the dark and cold. He noted the unusual phenomena with interest and concluded: in time of frost find a minor sun. (From a book by Loren Eiseley.)
How much greater is your gift of light, given in winter . . . Light wrapped in flesh and laid in a manger. No minor sun, but the light of world, your only begotten Son given that your children may weave their webs of meaning in any darkness, however chill.
In this season of lengthened nights bring us to Bethlehem, to find and be found by the day star, Your Son, Jesus. May we live and rejoice in His Light.
Light and Warmth.
There was a neat little white house with black trim. The door was white and black. It looked warm and cozy.
The door to the farmhouse was old and worn . . . many years of opening and closing, many small hands (now large hands) had pushed and slammed, then as years passed, opened that old door slowly.
Doors. Doors tell you a lot. There was the feed store door with a picture of a smiling pig on it. The roadside tavern had a red door. I thought of the great contrast in meaning between that red door and the red on some church doors . . . vast difference but the same color. One red with hope, the other with the fires of hell.
There was the door with the clean "welcome" mat and the door with the door knocker that read "Peace to all who enter here". What does your door say?
Best of all I liked the door to the little country church. On the warm, sunny day it was open. How inviting is an open church door.
Doors tell you a lot. Doors open and close. Doors invite or prohibit. There is a door that ought to be open - the door to your heart. Jesus said, "I stand at the door and knock, if any man open to me . . ." (read Revelation 3:20).
Opening that door will give meaning to all your going and coming, to all your journeys and your homecomings, to all of life. Be sure to open that door to Him.
Light and Warmth in the Lord.
Flowers and love growing unexpectedly.
Tiny delph blue flowers -- thrusting the dark earth aside -- reveling in the warm spring sunshine -- remind us. Violets growing along the edge of a ditch spur the reminder to a clear perception. All around us, dear ones, we see the "signs of transcendence", the messages sent for eyes that will see. Flowers grow in unexpected places.
And so does your Love, Blessed One, grow in places where least expected and most needed. In areas dark with pain and despair, when hope flickers as a ghost upon the hearth, Your Love brings a certainty that suffering endures but for a moment, and joy sustains even our deepest grief. The morning breaks and fair flowers bloom. Thank you, Gracious God. We remember His suffering, and His victory.
Light and Warmth.
Echoes of the garden walk. Jesus among the stones. The Creator walked in the garden in the cool of the evening, the time when cool winds began to blow. What a remarkable event . . . the infinite God walking close to His creatures.
Into Palestine in the first century . . . the years bear His mark . . .Jesus walked among the stones . . . bread stones, temple stones, grave stones . . . among the hardened hearts and lives. What a remarkable love, that God would walk in a world far from Eden.
Most remarkable of all is that he will walk today in our lives. The cool, garden breeze still blows. He walks in our struggle, our fears, our weariness. The living God brings new creation in hearts wintered deep . . . the thaw, the flowering, the spring.
Thank You, Blessed One, for walking with us today.
Light and Warmth to you this day.
The rains came . . . gentle showers and then hard pounding hail . . . to herald the turning. The sound of wind and rain alone marked the arrival of seed time. We are glad for the change from winter to spring.
Seed catalogues put away. Some gardens in, some to come. We relish these days of earth warming and seed planting . . . onion sets and seed potatoes.
Watching for rainbows, we offer our thanks, Blessed One, for Your providence. The little eyes of spring open. The songbirds sing Your praise. We rejoice and remember Your promise, and we anticipate the first lettuce. How good and gracious are Your mercies. How constant and faithful are Your ways.
Light and Warmth.
Finally lost them. Held on all winter . . . all the bleak gray days, the cold wind, the ice and snow. That old oak tree held onto it's leaves until last week. But even then it didn't let go. You can look and see, if there is still a remnant. The ends of the stems still cling to the branch. It was the middle of the stems that finally failed . . . worn through by the tossing spring thaw winds. I like the tenacity of that tree.
Now some things we ought to let go . . . let some wind carry far away. But there are some things worth holding at all costs . . . wind, weather, ice, snow. If we could love the Lord that way, if we could love His Church that way . . hold on, hold dear, in season and out, all days, today. We need some oaks for the Lord and this church. Could you be one? Would you try?
Light and Warmth.
When Did the Grass Turn Green?
I missed it again. When did it happen? Did anyone witness it? It was old, dull, grayish, left-over winter, and then suddenly . . . it was green. Did you see the grass turn green?
We wondered if it ever would, as we chipped ice off the drive not so long ago. Weary of wading snow banks and shoveling drifts, we dreamt by the fire of greening spring. Then most of us missed it. Does it happen overnight? From the imperceptible hint of green to out and out spring. It just comes in God's providence, with the rolling of the days. Hope we see more of life than we do of the grass turning green. In it's hasty turning may we not miss it.
The Bible says all flesh is grass. It's "green", but it quickly withers and fades. The Bible also says our times are in His hands, and it further admonishes us to so number our days that we get a heart of wisdom.
Make us wise enough, Lord, to see the personal greenings all around, new grass, the renewals, give us eyes to see.
Light and Warmth in the Lord.
Flying Kites -- a Priceless Joy
Why would anyone stand out in a wet field, face into a blowing wind laced with raindrops? Well . . . to see the eyes of a five year old sparkle with excitement, to see the smile as bright as daybreak, and to hear the words, "This is the first time I've ever flown a kite". Where, I ask you, for a king's ransom, could you find such innocent joy? So I've been dabbling in childhood again. Catching kite-flying winds and riding with them on waves of air. (Remember the old "Hi-Fliers" made out of paper? Has it been that long?)
Time can take the edge off of innocent joy. An old friend of mine used to say that it's not age, but mileage. He meant that the experiences along the way can wear you down, dull your joy. The poet (Eliot) says that from the hand of time there issues the selfish soul misshapen, lame, unable to fare forward or retreat. Has time taken your joy?
Religion is intimately concerned with joy. We are told to be as children. In fact, it is to such that the Kingdom is open. We must be born again from above - a newness connected with child-likeness, (not childishness). We cannot always be joyful in our circumstances, but we can live out of a deep faith that will carry us along rejoicing. May all winds and kites and children's voices remind us of that joy
unspeakable.Light and Warmth.
Laughter and Tears -- the twins
It happens again and again. And here, on the edge of the season of Christ's suffering, we come to it yet another time. We find joy and sorrow right next to each other. Laughter and tears! Why are they so close?
Jesus came to the brow of the hill. He was met by a multitude proclaiming Him the Messiah. There were songs sung, palms waved, and the ancient words spoken: "Hosanna, blessed is He that comes in the Name of the Lord". It was Christ's Triumph, leading captivity captive.
But, as He comes over the hill and sees Jerusalem, Jesus cries over the city, saying, that if they had only known . . . (Read Luke 7:28-42).
O friends, let us rejoice in the King Who comes in the Name of the Lord. And let us carefully measure our lives by His tears. "If you had only known . . .".
To See Again -- the second touch
He hardly noticed his eye-lids anymore . . . they had been closed so long. But with the Dayspring's first touch muscle, nerve, tissue, fluid massed and moved in long forgotten patterns. Light came flooding into those eyes so long accustomed to the dark. At that point full vision would probably have been too much to bear. In his mercy, he had let in enough to wake the deadened nerve endings. It was all a glare, but it was glorious. And then there was a second touch from the Dayspring's hand and the blurring shapes were focused into faces and things. He saw again. Clearly.
Dear ones, His light pouring into our souls will hurt at first, but it will hurt to heal, and we shall see. At this season, when we are held by holy memories, may we see beyond the decorations and the candles and the glitter. May we be touched again by the Dayspring, and find ourselves with a clearing vision that lasts beyond years end. May we rejoice in the Light, and live in the Light, always.
Light and Warmth in the Lord.
Little worlds. I passed by a small financial world . . . days and years spent in deposits and assets, interest rates and balances. Then I walked by a farm truck and thought of mud and pigs, fields of beans and corn, long days, weathered faces. Next, a commercial establishment for administering the drug of forgetfulness, where "pleasure" is manufactured. Years and lives are spent there. I walked by an empty building, once a thriving business. I tried to reach out and sense the labor of many hands, the old hopes, the brightness of beginnings.
My spring walk was divided by a meeting . . . the staple fare of a pastor's life. Meetings are, after all, gatherings of people. I enjoy the give and take, the voices, the laughter and even the tough decisions.
Walking back to my own little world I noticed the purple hyacinths in full bloom. I looked at them and stretched out my thought to the Creator of all the worlds, great and small.
Save us, Blessed One, from being boxed in, living separate lives in our own little worlds. Show us the greater purpose. Reach out to us in field and flower, sun and shower. Call us out of ourselves and closer to you.
Light and Warmth.
It seemed like the edges of paradise. The creek was clear and the sun danced on dry washed rocks. The breezes blew from the throne. I walked along reveling in the warm sunshine, in the renewed call to life given the earth, and I remembered the garden at the dawn of creation. Then I came across a set of footprints. Someone had been here. The dream was not mine alone.
I guess it's that way always. Where have you been that you aren't following somebody's footprints? Maybe it is not in the newness of the place, but in the choosing that joy is to be found. Who you follow seems to be the important thing. Who do you follow?
Looking around I laughed out loud. Is not all of this rock and river, sun and see, Your footprints, Blessed One? I was standing in your tracks Star Spinner, Spring Maker. And did not Your Son put His prints on the earth? O help us, Your children, to see and follow Your footprints always.
Light in the Lord.
There they were . . . in a bunch on the end of the still bare limb - the little scraggly leaves, tiny and greenish, which the oak tree finally puts forth. Oaks take their time greening out, but they're tough and their leaves hold on long past the frost. Of course, that's a millennium away, it would seem, for today is the glad heart of golden spring. New green or deep color hangs from every limb. Spring's song is sweet and strong. The time for singing has come and the voice of the dove is heard in the land. Today even a miser is generous (if only with smiles").
It's easy (and good) to hear spring's song. Harder, but better, it is to hear the melody of the singer of spring.
We are too easily satisfied. Senses sated with seas of green leaves, we stop too soon. Beneath the bursting buds and behind the blown showers is the singer of spring.
Lord, show me Your glory in the storm and the bow, in growing flower and leaf. Sing Your creation song that we might hear and worship You, Lord of life and living things, giver of every spring. Thou, whose face toward us is life and light and hope . . . Thou . . . Lord of days and nights, seasons and years, sing, sing Your glorious song.
Light and Warmth.
Fog and frost, moonlight shining through ice crystals, full moon and a full nursery at the local hospital, clouds after sunrise, a little thaw: So another week begins, and we move into the middle of the first month. Can the year, just begun, already be flying through the first cycle of sun and moon. The winter solstice past, the days hold a bit more sunlight. Winter sunsets draw from that fading light to give us bursts of purples and mauves, golds and muted reds. Where are you in the moving of the winter days? John Wesley would ask his Methodist preachers if they were going on to perfection. Perhaps that is too big a question for a cold gray winter day; but we might ask if we are holding steady on the journey. Are you holding steady on the journey of life? The answer, I imagine, is close to: "Most of the time". The Bible (in the book of Hebrews) tells to run with patience the race given to us. How? By looking to Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith! That is a strong clue to managing the journey with some grace (God's). Grace for the journey, each day, through the swift flight of days: we could begin our mornings with prayer for just that.
Light and Warmth in the Lord.
Some people have little difficulty finding a job. They can pull up roots, move to a completely different community, not know anyone, and yet within a week or two they have a good job. The modifier "good" means that the job they find is not a late shift in a fast food factory, but a better paying job in one of the respected places of employment. What is it that makes some people so employable? Is it their smile? Perhaps it is their wit or ease of pleasant banter. At any rate, some folks are hired first. This scripture is for the rest of us. It is about a group of people who were looking for work, but could not find it. Now we often think of the 'eleventh hour' people as lazy, good for nothings, but the scripture simply says that they were standing around. I like to think that they had been looking for work all the day long. It was not that they did not seek work, just that they could not find it readily. If that is so, then Jesus says that in the Reign of the Righteous One, God looks for just those people. Those 'easy to hire' people are already at work, but God comes looking for those who look long, who are not always winning, who do not get what they want handed to them. God is seeking diligent, hard working people, who will be ready to go when they are called, but who have been overlooked in the first round of the hiring. They will be paid equal wages. They will actually receive their pay first. Think about it.
Be with all who labor this day. Lighten their daily burdens. Add a melody of joy to their lives. Give strength to the worker and rest at evening. In Jesus' name. Amen.
Many agnostics think of religion as a flight from reality. They say "primitive" man was afraid of the elements and invented gods to protect him. All religion, they think, does this. I used to give that kind of thinking a little tip of the intellectual hat. Now I think it is simply preposterous.
Religion is not a flight from fear into protection. Religion takes you closer to God. The closer you get you find love and a cross. The beating heart of the universe is love, but love was subjected to death. The cross tells all; it tells of sacrificial love.
In an interview, Annie Dillard, author of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, said "agnostics often think that people run to God because they are afraid of dying. On the contrary, the biblical religion is not a safe think . . . they weren't using religion as an escape hatch. Faith forces you to a constant awareness of final things. Agnostics don't remember all the time that they are going to die. But Christians do remember".
It is the agnostic who flees to safety. They try to fence themselves off from God, love, the cross, and thus hold death at a distance. They attempt to stay safe in their manageable world. In Pilgrim Annie says, "The terms are clear; if you want to live you have to die". (Pilgrim, p. 80)
So don't let the old agnostic defense put you on yours. Be true to your faith. It is reality, not a flight.
Worship is like spring.
Light in the Lord.
The sun was just barely topping the horizon. Its slanted rays shining through the bare branches, through the frost on the window, produced a pattern in crystal and shadow which I wanted to capture. But it was not to be done. The sun came on up and the pattern disappeared like morning mist. And some folks say that's the way the world is. The world is like a drop of dew, gracing a flower petal, shining a moment, then gone forever.
The movement of sun and star, planets and time, cannot be stayed by our hands. So much of life is like my pattern of ice and shadow, shining and darkness, quickly vanishing.
But some things do not change. Think about the love of God. It is everlasting. It is without limit. The infinite love of God is given to you and me in Jesus. It will take away our sin. It will lighten our heavy burden...and it will carry us across the river, into the promised land. Friends, when some patterns change and vanish, think about that.
Light in the Lord.
It seemed as if I stood in the elder days. Ferns grew by the path. Old rocks, heavy with moss, leafy trees and plants...a deluge of green. Small wildflowers grew in abundance. The sky was deep blue. The air was still and heavy. A sudden shower brought out a scent which reminded you of ancient things. It was only a forest trail; but the stillness, deep as time, made me feel like a spectator in another world. Or, perhaps, that I was watched by ancient eyes. Ancient voices laughing drops of water from rock cliffs, and saying "Don't be hasty, creature of the Blessed One! Do you not have time to wonder at God's Forest?"
I listened in the silence for awhile, and then slowly walked down the trail to the road, thankful for the reminder of the many edges of God's creative love.
Light and peace in the Lord.
There they were, hanging from a limb of the tree, a round, humming ball of life. The children were curious, but innately cautious. They would edge forward and then scurry back, watching with wonder the swarm of bees in the tree.
Our neighbors had discovered the swarm, and called a beekeeper. We were invited to watch the hive "collected". I can hardly imagine not wanting all those bees in your back yard. At any rate, it was an exciting time of watching a striking phenomena.
How can anyone watch the order and precision, the planning and purpose in the bee swarm and even begin to suspect there is no God? That kind of activity cannot come from random chance or nothingness. Through the eye of a honeybee we can behold the Shaper of all things. Nature is a portal through which we, wondering, gaze into the thoughts of God.
And if these ordinary eyes of ours can see the outskirts of God's providence, how much more we may discover in God's revealing to us, God's open Word given in His Son, Jesus? We may know the Shaper of all worlds, and know what the Lord did for us. And that, my friends, is a cause for rejoicing and order and precision.
Light and Warmth.
It had never happened before. I held my breath, fearing that to breathe would shorten the time. Enchanted, I thought of once-in-a- lifetime experiences and quickly concluded that this was probably one of them. How feather light, sun dancing on multi-colored wings, on my arm, was a medium sized butterfly.
One of the fairest creatures, the butterfly. Earth logged, cocoon bound, bursts the bonds, crosses the barrier and flies, air lifted, rainbow painted.
O God, let each of us be like the butterfly...not conformed, but transformed...new creatures, sailing in heaven's blue, no longer afraid. Certain of life, certain of light. Certain of death...but remembering the butterflies change.
"Thank You, Blessed God, for lessons on warm summer days". Come to church. Sing favorite hymns. Peace and certainty to you all.
He walked right out of the bluegrass, across the flagstone, and crawled under an old, scraggly rock. I stopped and waited. Before long he crawled back out again and ventured off into the grass. I know that if I had time to wait I would see him come back. "There," I said to myself, "is a bug doing what a bug ought to do".
Now there are some real drawbacks about bugs that I don't need to mention -- things only interesting to an entomologist. But there are one or two admirable things about bugs. They are persistent. They are hardy. And that's probably enough to say. Except for one thing that my observation reminded me of...bugs, and most of the natural order, day in and day out, fulfill their proper end. They are doing what they were designed to do.
Of course a bug doesn't have to choose, and we do. We may decide to be what we were meant to be. "Help us, Blessed God, to find and fulfill our proper end, and thus join all stars and seas, clouds and creatures, in the dance of all worlds before Your Throne".
Light in the Lord.
A Silvery Slice of Space -- in a spider's web
Stretched clear across the front yard...long strands of silver converging to a center, and there he sat. It's a marvel to me how spiders can construct such intricate designs across such great distances. The web, sparkling with morning dew, reached from the eaves to the tree by the street...a whole plane of space sliced vertically by shimmering silver, and reaching from here to there.
Such marvels cannot find beginning in chaos. All the tales of cosmic chemical pots somehow bubbling up the order and design of the universe seem somewhat laughable in front of a spider's web. Such order befits a mind. Rational design is the tell-tale rift of deities role. It looks like God work.
God also bridged the distance between heaven and earth, vertically slicing history in one central plane, in one moment, silvery in moon and starlight shimmering, in stable new-born, Christ the God breathed.
"Thank You, Blessed God, thank You".
Light in the Lord.
It was a convention, with delegates circled round, colors flying, in the middle of summer hot days...a great time for a gathering. They worked on the agenda while I watched. Not a delegate, I had to keep a certain respectful distance.
There were some things different about this convention. Though there was a plan and delegates, it was conducted in silence...no bands blaring, no singers...in fact, no speakers. There was a leader, but you could not see him. Actually, he is invisible. And furthermore, the gathering was not held in a convention hall...air-conditioned, with all the contemporary conveniences. It was held outside, near a river.
All right...actually it was on the bank of the Meramec River, where, hiding behind a tree, I watched seven swallowtail butterflies (three varieties), and several smaller, unidentified softwingers, circle around a watering place. And it wasn't a convention, but it was a lovely reminder of the beauty of God's creation. Silently, with softly fluttering wings, they danced before the Maker of all worlds...in accord with His Will. "O blessed God, may it be so for us in these fields, by these streams, here and now, through His Grace".
Light and Warmth to you.
Eugene Peterson tells a wonderful story about a family of swallows on a lake in Montana. It seems that he was able to watch the growth of the young birds for a time one summer. He saw the parent birds search the lake surface for food for the young. He saw the young birds grow and develop. Then one day he saw them lined up on an old branch that reached out over the lake. The parent birds nudged the first one off the branch. Somewhere between the branch and the surface of the lake the young bird learned that its wings worked. It flew. The story was repeated with the second bird. The third young bird was a bit more resistant. When it was nudged toward the end of the branch, it turned loose, then grabbed the branch with its little talons, holding on for dear life. The parent birds simply pecked the young birds talons until it finally dropped, and did what it was created to do...fly. There was no harm in enabling the bird to do what it was meant to do. It would have been harmful to let the little bird cling to the old branch.
Peterson then goes on to say that people were meant to give. Living means giving. It is what we were meant to do and be. Now no one should be nudged into it. It should be done freely and joyously. We should not cling tenaciously to an old dead branch of a bank account when we could be doing what we were meant to do...to soar, to fly, to give and feel the uplift of God's wind beneath our wings. Sooner or later we are going to have to give it all up. Think about beginning now, this week...giving up the clinging and going on to the flying.
Light and Peace in the Lord.
Real Kite Flying and Real Life
Is there a computer program somewhere that simulates flying kites in the wind? Probably there is. The reason I ask is that one of my Christmas presents this year was a computer program for fishing. It is a good program, designed by a pro-bass fisherman. The lakes and rivers are realistic. The fishing rods and even the wide variety of baits are accurate and detailed. The fish respond in the right places -- fish the structure, fish the points, fish the logs, fish the brush -- depending upon the type of fishing you are doing. And on snowy days in the middle of winter, I have enjoyed an hour or two of this kind of fishing. I filled my "live" box with twenty-six pounds of bass at one point. You sure could not find any real fishing on icy winter evenings. But that is exactly the problem. What? The word "real". It is interesting "simulation". It is clean -- no scales, no cleaning, no cold wind or hot sun -- but it is not real.
Now this is not a diatribe against computers. Those machines, properly used, produce many, many blessings, as those who learned to type on old manual Remingtons can attest; but in some ways they are not real. (Do you remember trying to erase typing errors when using two carbon sheets?)
I began to think about this recently when we were visiting one of our sons in college. It was a warm Saturday, sun shining, a south wind blowing gently. Our son, now in his twenties, said that the weather on that particular day made him feel like flying a kite. Yes! Exactly! Not just to simulate a kite, but to get out into the wind, into a field, to find the real wind, feel the real earth beneath your feet. Fly those kites in the March winds. Thanks for the reminder son. I probably will continue to fish on the computer; but it is enjoyable simply because it is a reminder of the real thing. What about your faith? Is it based upon simulations or the real thing? It happens in church, where the True Wind blows, where True Colors are seen, and where Grace abounds. Think about it.
Light in the Lord.
I love solitary things. I love to walk in the woods, the glade, on hills and in hollows. The deep stretch of river, through the next riffle, delights my spirit. The wildflowers and the out-croppings of limestone seem to have a language of their own. One little Columbine speaks worlds about the Creator.
Yet there is no solitary religion. The Christian faith is a religion of the Church, of worship together, of the gathered people. T.S. Eliot, the Nobel laureate, asks in one of his poems: "What life have you that is not life together?" This line reminds us that while Christ died alone, for our individual salvation, yet he called together his Church, and entrusted to it the food new of reconciliation.
You and I are called of God to serve and grow, to share and study, and to gather on Sunday for renewing the covenant. The solitary standing apart is one "fruit" of Christian commitment. But the "rooting" of the faith is to be done around the Altar on Sundays. Go to church. Go to worship.
Peace and certainty to you all.
The bones of the ground would quake ever so slightly, the grass and leaves shiver, the hearts of the Saints would leap and sinners tremble at it's clarion call. Now it was silent. Held fast by disuse, lashed with the silk-silver of heedless spiders, the sound of the old bell had not echoed over the hills for times and half times, it would seem, an apocalypse ago.
Pity, to have so great a song to sing and no one to loose it . . . Angel's song wrapped human silence.
Are you singing your best song? Nay, not just "yours", for all good songs are but echoes of the one grand harmony. Does God's music sound clearly from your life and lips or is the song muted by disuse, lashed by the flimsiness of your own will and ways?
"Loose our best songs Father, on this land. Let the bones quake, the leaves shiver. May the hearts of the Saints rejoice and sinners tremble at its clarion call."
Light and Warmth -- remember everyday is an Easter.
When was the last time you stood out in the yard and looked at the stars? Been a while? Well, perhaps it is time to find a clear summer evening. Wait until the lightning bugs have gone to bed, then go out into the yard. You might have to hunt for a space that is not in a direct line of sight from a street light. Find a place dark enough to see the stars. Look at those pin points of light way up there in the heavens. It is a wondrous sight. To look at it for awhile causes one to breathe deeper and sigh. There is a natural (or rather supernatural) lift to the great wonders of God's creation. And while you are out there looking and reflecting remember a star gazer of another day. He was watching the sky one night when a neighbor came by and asked what he was doing. he replies without taking his eyes off of the sky, "I am counting stars." "Whatever for?," came the quick question from his friend. Because God has told me that our descendants will be as many as the stars of the sky," he said. The neighbor knew that the star gazer was old. His wife was old. "Abraham, Abraham" he chided. "How can that be?" The star gazer replied, "It will be because the Almighty has promised that it will be. I am relying on that promise." And so it was that an older couple began a journey to a promised land, based upon a vision. The church is here today because they believed. What is your vision? What do you see? Can we get beyond the ordinary realism of this limited realm? Can you look beyond "reasonable" logic and see what God has waiting for us? If we can, there is a great future waiting out there for us, beyond the "it can't be done!", beyond the "We've tried it before!", beyond the "We don't have the money!," beyond all the other vision limiting excuses. Get out there in the yard and look for the stars. No telling what you will see.
On the outside looking in. No, not into a building, but a world. We watch the world but cannot reach it, nor can it work its charm on us. The day breaks with light and freshness...but the light and freshness do not change us. The flowers bloom in their season. The trees of the field clap their hands before the Lord. All the created order joins in the dance of all worlds before the throne, but we seem to be on the outside looking in.
The poet Thomas Hood said the same thing. Remember this verse from "I Remember"!
I remember, I remember the fir trees dark and high. I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance but now 'tis little joy, to know I'm farther away from heaven than when I was a boy.
Friend, if the leaves of your New Testament mean anything they mean this situation is changed in Jesus Christ. The years dim our earthly vision, but eyes of faith see more clearly. To one in Christ, the beauty of creation reveals the grace of the creator. Truly the field will exult and everything in it. The trees of the wood sing for joy before the Lord...and you and I shall be a part of the renewal of all creation, not on the outside looking in.
The last of the Judges of Israel, Samuel, placed a large stone by the road between the towns of Mizpah and Shen, north of Jerusalem, on the ridge of hills that runs north and south in Israel. 1 Samuel 7:5-12 tells the story. The Israelites had lost the ark of the covenant to the Philistines, a strong neighboring group of people, who successfully waged war upon the Israelites. It was only when the people of Israel stopped serving the false gods of the land, put away their Baals and Ashtoreths, that the Lord came to their aid. The people gathered at Mizpah, confessed their sins, cried to the Lord, and offered a lamb as an offering. God heard their cry and "thundered with loud thunder against the Philistines." Israel defeated the Philistine army and chased them out of Israel. To commemorate this return to the Lord, Samuel placed the stone. It was called "Ebenezer." "Eben" is Hebrew for "stone." "Hazer" is Hebrew for "help." Samuel said, "Thus far has the Lord helped us.? It was the stone of help. God, who is often called "the Rock," came to the aid of the people when they turned away from false ways, from following the drives of their bent human nature. They had been more interested in things and pleasures than in the wonders of the Lord of heaven and earth. They got wrapped up in the local deities of pride and lust and greed. "Sounds like almost any evening of TV." When they turned to the Lord they had what they needed. Seems pretty clear. Where do we raise our "Ebenezer"?
Barefoot days! Too hot for shoes. Footprints on dusty lanes leading to the old swimming hole. Dog days! Too hot to move. Haze and humidity, and images of summer growing old.
And the rain. I remember Riley's poem:
Barefooted boys scud up the street -
or scurry under sheltering sheds:
And schoolgirl faces, pale and sweet
Gleam from shawls about their heads.
And then, abrupt, - the rain! The rain!
The earth lies gasping; and the eyes
Behind the streaming window-pane
Smile at the trouble of the skies.
(From "A Sudden Shower" by James Whitcomb Riley.)
Ah, but that was another day. Here we are, deep into summer, and the locust sings, "The time, the time." The croaker answers, "The deep, the deep." What will you do with these days? What is most important?
Barefoot days of the soul! Refresh us, use us, God of summer heat and shower.
They tore it down, hauled it away. They filled in the hole and packed it down. It takes such a short time to tear down an old house.
It wasn't really much of a house, but it had some interesting decorative woodwork and a nice porch. I wonder who sat on it across the years, sought a bit of breeze on a hot summer night. Did anyone listen for songbirds at dawn? Anyone trade tales late into a spring night? Could they smell the lilac in bloom? I wonder how many tears were shed there.
It's kind of sad to watch an old house go...like dreams fading on a morning mist. But there are new houses beyond our dreaming, those not made with hands, eternal, where dreams do not fade and tears do not fail...where old and new blend into blessedness, beyond joy, where grace abounds.
"Your eternity breaks into these days, Blessed God. Your truth is plain to see. Grace glistens in every place. O give us eyes that see, and hearts that rejoice."
Faith and the Old Swimming Hole
It held me up again. It always does. You just have to lift up and let go, and you find yourself borne up with little effort. It always feels great when the hazy fields shimmer with mid-summer heat, to swim in the cool water of the old swimmin' hole. But swimming is not only refreshing, it is an act of faith. It still amazes me to float and glide above the deep.
Can you imagine what it would be like if you had never seen anyone swim and someone tried to tell you about it? On the water? Impossible! Wood floats. Iron and people don't. First you'd have to learn to trust your teacher, then to try the water. You'd have to have a lot of faith before you took your feet off the bottom and trusted yourself to the water. What a joy that first swim would be.
I guess you know that religion is like that too. You find it's claims hard to believe. Impossible! Yet if you can trust The Teacher, try the water, and take your feet off the bottom you will find it holding you up. Faith is like that. When you are knee-deep in life, when the pressure shimmers like haze on the field, or when nothing is moving in your life and you find it torpid and still, take to the water, trusting the Lord, and you will find refreshment you had not imagined. O yes, and it will hold you up. It always will.
Sunlight on stones. Warm day. Cheery blue sky. Walking down the bed of a river I found beautiful plants, one after another...wild flowers, bright red, catching my eyes. The last of the butterflies hovered around them.
They grew in the river bed. I was surprised to find them there. You might expect torrents of water to inhabit such a place. And the rocks! How could anything so lovely grow on such ground.
Surprising! Unexpected! Tilting the senses out of the usual patterns. Sometimes beauty blooms in the strangest of places.
"So it is with Your Grace, Blessed God. When things are washed away at times, and when ways are rocky, when we can hardly hope for it, Your help comes...bright and beautiful, catching the senses, filling our empty hearts, renewing our courage. Thank You for bright blossoms of hope, Lord, may they cheer us in these golden days."
The sparrow returns to her nest. The sun sets in the west. The river flows to the sea. Not only does there seem to be an ordering, but an end, a point of completion. It is so with the flux and flow of inanimate nature. And even the animals live and die in their cycle...a completion, a true end. Shoot an arrow in the air and it will trace a course to it's proper end.
"So for us, O Lord...our true end, our completion. Reveal to us not only the ordering of our days, our daily toil and daily bread, but the end of the journey. We cannot find it by ourselves. And we only, of all Your creatures, resist and refuse our given goal.
"Bring us, Lord, our hearts and minds and spirits, before You, burdens left behind, doubts and fears aside. Bring us before You in utter astonishment and utter joy. There may we find the end and purpose appointed for us. Gather our restless hearts unto Thee, secure in Your love, safe in the shadow of Your wings, living our days before You, our highest end."
How good God is. He provides us with cool days at the end of summer...as the sun scurries south over the boundary. The days are warm. The nights are chill. The dogwoods color up. The hickories begin to change. The oaks shiver in morning cold. A stillness hovers like morning fog. Life waits for the turn.
"We thank you for these September days, Blessed One. They are a time for testing the summers work, for laboring in the harvest field, and waiting for the frost to creep up from the creek. We'll lay in the oak logs and wait for fire light and hearth time.
"Stay with us, Holy One, in sunshine through amber leaves. And in the sere days to come be light for the path, strength for the journey."
How good You are to us.
Does the frost have a life of its own? Of course it has. A few years ago we lived in a house on a hill. On wood-fire mornings in October we would look out to see if the frost had come. First we would see it along the banks of the creek at the base of the hill. Then, day to day, the frost would edge up the hill until it peered in our window panes and crackled on the cold stone of the rock garden.
Frost has a beauty all its own. Have you seen the sparkle of street lights reflected on the gem stones of frost? Have you not traced (with your vision) the moonlit patterns of crystal on your window pane? Hunter's moon is frost's light.
The frost comes asking questions. What about the year? Has the passing brought you closer to the frost's creator? What about the winter? Are you prepared for the slackened light? The frozen breath? Have you a supply of wood? A hearth fire? A haven beyond soul chill?
The frost has a life of its own and brings, in its own time, beauty to behold and questions we should answer.
I got the message, loud and clear. It comes every year about this time, but it always surprises me. It is not something you think about in the middle of summer heat waves. But sure as the sunrise are some of the old timers' sayings: When the cicadas call it's three months until frost.
Three months till frost! Can we be that deep in summer? The flight of time is masked by shimmering heart. Deep into life we need to mark the moving of time.
"O God, whose providence guides the certain turning of the season, whose very creatures foretell the erosion of the present hour, will You not also send into our hearts' season a warning?
"Wake us from summer reveries. Set us to seeking and doing Your will 'ere the chill wind blows from the north land. God, whose Son walked these seasons and walked through death for us, will You call us by Your good spirit? May we hear and heed."
Black marks and their meanings.
We make little black marks on white paper. Early in our lives we are taught that the little black marks are letters, that they form words and sentences and paragraphs. Slowly and carefully..."See Spot, Jane? See Spot run?"...from the little marks meaning emerges. It's quite remarkable really. And the marks are powerful. They can stir great feeling. "Good-bye!" "Safe!" "Welcome!" And they give messages for good or ill.
But you must know that the marks have meaning for you. I read somewhere that if a person did not know about letters, and if someone showed that person a poem they would probably think that a poem is a lot of little marks on a page. They would be partly right of course, but they would miss the meaning, the joy.
God leaves messages for you and me...in the sunrise, in a friends smile, in a Living Word. Don't miss it, friend. The Word is there for you to see. It brings meaning and joy. It's for you. Come to church. Read the Word. Learn the code.
Seasons of our lives -- Signs of Change
A touch of red told the tale. All else was green...trees, grass, underbrush. But the little vine, creeping up the trunk of the old oak, had a definite hue. It was red. So, just another plant on another tree in the woods? Just another message, a footnote of the Holy, a clue, a sign. There are beginnings and there are endings. How do we know that we are on the edge of that terror, that tumult, called change? We often miss it. Did you see the grass turn green in the spring? Probably, like me, you looked out the windows one day and said, "Look, the grass is green." We often miss the change, the season, the need. So, is that important? How does that effect the price of hamburger? Hardly at all, perhaps. But sometimes others depend upon our seeing, sensing. Seasons in our lives are marked with subtle changes...a little red in the middle of the green. Can we be aware of them? Can we sense the season in the lives of those around us? Sometimes that is all we can or need to do. At other times we may be able to offer words of recognition and support, and hope that others will do the same.
The little church stood on a rise surrounded by hills. It was a post card setting. The bricks were a better brick, dark, with a patterned surface. The yard was well kept. The stained glass reflected bright colors, the design clean and simple. It was idyllic, pastoral. Fields of cattle could be seen near by. "The cattle of a thousand hills are mine," says the Lord. By the church was the little cemetery. The bodies of the saints in that valley remained close to their church building. It was often that way with country churches. I could see a larger pattern in one glance...the lasting hills, the death of the body, the life of the soul. "Lift up your eyes to the heavens, look to the earth beneath," said the prophet Isaiah, "the earth will wear out like a garment and its inhabitants will pass away. But my salvation will last forever, my righteousness will never fail." And so it is. The little steeple pointed upward, to the Lord of heaven and earth and all people. Only church steeples do that...reminders of eternity in our midst.
There are lessons in a handful of leaves. The glory of the autumn woods lies in its variety - yellow and red, brown and orange - each leaf reflecting its own splendor. No two are alike. Each is unique and contributes to the fall kaleidoscope. That's also true of churches and people.
The glory of the autumn woods lies in it's unity. In a handful of leaves not one of them is perfect. Each has a flaw - a blemish, a tear, a rough edge. But hold them up together and they show a radiant, unified beauty. That also is true of churches and people.
The glory of the autumn woods lies not in the leaves at all, but in the light. Color is nothing without the light. Hold a handful of leaves up into the sunlight and they are transfigured. Trees are best reflecting the sunshine. That is also true of churches and people. Our glory is the reflected glory of the light of the world. Let it shine -- in and through us -- to others.
There are many lessons in a handful of leaves.
A Blue Stone, Pressure, and Creation
It was just a piece of rock. Long lost to human sight, it slept the timeless sleep in a passageway beneath the building. How long had it been there? Where did it come from? Who had seen it before?
A deep cobalt blue, whirls of white, a few spots of ordinary stone. . . what a lovely reminder of primal creation. Fired in ancient depths, polished by movement and heart, some unknown upheaval brought it to our surface. And there it is, on my desk, a lovely stone.
"We remember Your might, Blessed God and Your plan for the whole creation. . .that it might be redeemed. May the pressures and upheavals in our lives, along with the spiritual fires, leave us more lovely, polished, redeemed."
Recall the Beauty in the heart.
You cannot fully catch such a thing. Cameras catch the leaf color and the line of the hills. Memory holds the feeling of the wind and the sound of leaves falling. But the beauty that strikes to the heart can hardly be captured.
Out there, beyond the mist on the edge of the world, beyond sun shining on golden leaf, is something more than an Ozark hillside aflame with color. There is a lost memory fighting for recovery, calling out in quaking leaf and dancing light. How we need to recall what that beauty means.
"Thank You, Blessed God, for Your created beauty, for falling leaves, and gaps in the hills. Bring us, by Your Grace, to that special memory, to the saving knowledge of redemption in Christ, world maker, rescuer. Reawaken the beauty within us, the beauty of a new heart.
The Night the Angels Came to Earth
They could not see who it was. The Angel came out of the darkness of the winter night and stood right beside them on the hills near Bethlehem. The Shepherds, not usually afraid of any intrusion, quaked in fear. "Suddenly," the Holy Bible says, the bright "Glory" of the Lord shone round about them. The burst of brilliance held both shepherds and angel in a circle of light.
The angel spoke words of comfort. "Fear Not!" The words soothed their terrors that Holy Night, as they have soothed a world of fears ever since.
"Fear Not!" The unseen is now visible. The unknown is revealed and is "for us." A Savior is born. The news from that heavenly realm is "tidings of great joy."
"Fear Not!" No darkness is too dark. No darkness is impenetrable. The darkness is a fleeting thing. It cannot endure the light of God come into the world.
Suddenly a multitude of angels stood on the earth, within the circle of light, and sang those wonderful words: "Glory to God in the highest, peace, good will, to all."
The angels' song tells us that we are not alone in any darkness. We have heard the angels sing with human tongue. We are not to be afraid. The Savior of all humankind has come. Alleluia.
The lightning is brighter and the thunder louder in the hills. I discovered this when I was a boy. I watched the steady black lines of rain move across Shepard Mountain (correct spelling, a family name), saw the trees across the valley bending wildly, even before I heard the wind. Then the storm would break with full fury on the hill at Epworth. Thunder would roll through the valleys and hollows like a gigantic fast freight traveling at unknown speeds, shaking the switching signals, the towers, the houses near the tracks and even the mighty oaks stirred from their deep sleep when the storm diesel, like death's chariot, roared by. Rain? Yes, pouring rain, quickly caught by dry creeks and tumbled over stone and stump, cradled in a narrow earth bed, channeled, hissing and howling down the ridge, swelling the little creeks...Hurricane Creek and Turkey Creek...till they spilled over banks and washed away the old campfires left by yesterdays hikers. (Storms...still leave me breathless, excited.)
Then the next morning we would sing: "I saw God wash the world last night with his sweet showers from on high, and then when morning came, I saw him hang it out to dry." And earth did seem fresher, the air clearer, and the morning sunlight danced upon the riffles in the streams. Life and death had clashed with a grave ferocity, and life had prevailed.
I guess, even all these years later, I still believe that. Life prevails! The hill storms now echo in memory, but they tell of other storms through which we must travel. So on with the journey, friends, singing, "I saw God wash the world last night..."
Years ago I read a saying that I've remembered. I found it in an address to a graduating class that had been delivered by Will Durant and subsequently printed. The saying was, "Inhibition is the first principle of civilization." I think that statement is close to the truth.
What called it to mind was a little wall plaque I read some time ago -- you see them in many stores. Right in the middle of the self-affirmative statements there appeared this line: "I am me. Let me be uninhibited." That seems to be an opposite of Durant's statement.
I am certain that most of us are inhibited in certain areas of our lives. We could, within reason, use a little loosening up here and there. But as a principle in which to believe, I would be in favor of Will Durant's aphorism rather than the other theme, that of "Turning loose equals freedom." We've turned much loose in our culture in the last sixty years. It has created as many, perhaps more, problems than it has solved.
So, let's have a kind word for inhibition. We eat with forks not fingers. We live in houses and apartments not under rock or in tree. We measure consequences of word and act rather than launching forth in an uninhibited manner. Let's be certain to teach our children, and remind ourselves.
Peace and certainty to you all.
The shadow has power to cause a brave heart to cringe and waver. Darkness wields a terrible weapon; jagged and poisoned, it leaves wounds which heal only with the strongest remedy. Yet there are wounds of wonder. Awe and joy can inflict a pain as tangible and often weightier than the devices of the dark lord.
One character in Tolkien's novel puts these words forth: "Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would not have come (on the Quest) had I known the danger of light and joy." (Lord of the Rings, vol. 1, p. 490) This character, whose name was Gimil, had come to know goodness and purity in the life of a great person. To part from this revelation was painful. To take to the road again was as a cruel wound.
I wonder if the pitiful Apostle Judas suffered from the wounds of light. He was in the very presence of light, but he tried to keep a dark place within his soul - a secluded spot where evil still held sway. In attempting to hold on to this, he was broken. Yes, he chose the night, seeking to weave his little threads into the whole fabric of darkness.
Light and joy can wound - but only if we seek to hold on to the shadow. Then healing love becomes judgment and pain. Such a wound should lead us to its own cure. Would you be healed? Seek then the light which cures the shadow. As a highland preacher once noted, "One shadow never yet banished another. For this is the business of sunshine."
He just sat there and relaxed, soaking up the sun, oblivious to the seething surge of the human season we are all in. How could he do that? Doesn't he know that sunning is for summer? Hasn't he heard that the weeks before Christmas are supposed to be filled to the brim with activity?...cards to be written, packages to be mailed, did we hear from them last year...why weren't we invited...more punch and cookies...the dinner...the party...the play...the concert...the frantic last minute...the day...the collapse.
But that little squirrel was content to sit still, soaking up God's sunshine, quietly reveling in God's providential care. Probably doesn't know any better. But then, on the other hand, he could symbolize for us something that we should know.
May the Peace of God bless you this day.
Fast water ahead, racing down the long tilt of the continent. Soon we'll be schussing through the riffle of another year, eyes ahead, paddles ready to keep our balance. There's another journey ahead, and not much time to look around. But in this slow current at the head of the run let us remember.
With gratitude we remember the steady growth, the teaching, the love shared, support given to friends, food given the hungry. We remember the hours given us to serve, songs sung, prayers prayed, the laughter of friends, God's fount of mercies clear and deep, and the Presence always with us.
We remember those who left this river for a greater journey, and those who have joined us on our way.
Most of all we lift our hearts to You, Blessed God, beginning and end, Lord of the journey, and we ask for Your guidance as we bring our eyes back to the river ahead.
It happens every time, and it's always been a bit of a wonder to me.
You listen, feel the rhythm, the time, the harmonies, the flow, and it leaves you the better for listening. Of all the daily experiences one of the most uplifting has to be good music. Whether it's a Bach toccata and fugue for organ, or the measured symmetry that is Mozart, or a great choral work, music has special charms. It is a gift to be received, and it does not leave you unchanged.
Music has always had a connection with the faith. It is not accidental that the very heart of the Bible is a hymnal.
"We thank You, Blessed God, for the lift of music...these wondrous harmonies remind us of the music of all creation and all worlds, rising and surrounding Your throne, such keys and harmonies beyond our current imagination. May we offer to You, Gracious God, our tune, our song, to blend into that universal music."
Come Sing God's song.
He looked me over, bared his teeth, and growled. I reached down and picked up a large stone from the gravel bar. It was the closest, the only weapon. Thinking quickly, I concluded that I'd probably miss with the stone, or, at best, hit something vital, like his tail. So I forgot the weapon, turned my back on him and resumed fishing.
To this day I don't know what it was...a neighborhood dog making his rounds or one of the "dogs" I heard howling late at night. I was pretty far back in the hills.
At my next glance he was gone. Maybe it wasn't worth, a fight. Maybe he accepted my gesture of peace. But for whatever reason I was glad to be concerned only with the wind, the little waterfall, the deep hole, the bass.
Made a good choice that day. Sometimes it doesn't pay to get involved with wolves.
What to Do in the Lenten Season.
Crocus and daffodil and forsythia send us a sign. The cardinals stake out territory with their lovely song. The little creatures of field and wood begin their annual stirrings. The sun lingers on the edge of the sky. All of nature proclaims a change. Light lengthening leads to Lent.
For forty days, not counting Sundays, the church remembers the wilderness...the wanderings of the children of Israel for forth years, and the forty days which Christ spent in the wilderness preparing for the journey to Jerusalem.
In our worship the altar colors change...purple for a king, crowns of thorns and bare branches for his suffering. We say few alleluias during this season. A somber joy pervades. A holy silence calls to us..."Remember, remember."
The great secret is not simply avoidance of suffering, but the power of creative suffering. How do we give our suffering to God? How do we offer suffering to do God's will? Is there a secret in such suffering?
Find a place for your "wilderness" wandering this Lenten season. Quiet time with a Bible. Time on your knees. Find a sanctuary where songs are sung, praise given in measured cadence. Find a place and remember what Christ's suffering means. An old testament line that used to be displayed during Lent is as follows: "Come and see, all you who pass by, if there are any sorrows like his (Christ's) sorrows." Those sorrows can save you.
Describing Spring: Pictures or Words?
The aphorism, "One picture is worth a thousand words," places me at a great disadvantage; for I have much less than a thousand words to stir up an interest in that which would require many pictures to amply present. Yea, for fullest appreciation of the little miracle (toward which these words run) would require a picture of the moment, in some Spring dawn, when the mist was lifting from the fields, pushed along by a warmer wind, when earth was warmed enough and light was long enough, when the tiny petals, softer than babies skin, stirred, moved ever so little, and opened to the day. Yes, a picture would have had to catch that moment and each moment of the day when these fragile flowers bloomed. It would have to catch on film or canvass all the spring days during which these delicate blooms sought and found the light. And further, such a picture would have to reflect all the past years this little miracle occurred, and give some recognition of the future when these spring flowers will appear again.
I'm afraid our aphorism must fall. Perhaps a few words will be worth more than a thousand pictures. Come and see them, the early spring blooms. The early morning is best; but that may be a personal preference. Hurry! Hurry! Before summer winds wither the gentle blossoms.
It sat on a little hill, half hidden by the pines. Made of native stone, it looked a bit like some of the geological curiosities found in the Missouri hills. But, of course, it was only a home, or had been to someone, sometime. Now it was vacant. Darkened windows, ghost's eyes, reflected memories of better days. But just now it was empty. The lane looked unused. The gate hung loosely on the post. Kind of sad in itself. But, on the other hand, there was a good stone house on a hill just ready for some life. Could it live again? Of course.
Walking on down the road I thought of the Prophet Ezekiel and his question..."Can these bones live again?" I hope it was not presumptuous to answer aloud, "Yes...and not only these bones." I also thought of a line of George MacDonald's: "We die daily. Happy those who daily come to life as well." Some thoughts about new life on the near edge of the Easter season.
The Pure Magic of Children and a Swing
I sat in the shade and watched it go...up and down, up and down.
What a lot energy to go nowhere! But it was great to see the wind push the hair back, eyes squinted in the sunshine, and smiles...broad and full. One of the sheer joys of summer is swinging in the park. I remember the boys took turns in the swings and I cherished the moments. How long does childhood last? Swinging time gives way quickly to other enterprises. An empty swing is a lonely sight. So I pushed them all...to get started, and then they had to pull their own weight against gravity of earth and time. (A lesson worth pondering.) Still finding joy in the simple pleasure...time and space suspended at the upward peak of the arc...they played in sunlit splendor, defying the cruelty of age and entropy. Heads tilted back, toes pointed Heavenward, swing on, little ones, while we remember and yearn for a freedom beyond earth's bondage, a freedom we only glimpse through eyes of faith, a perfect liberty, rejoicing the soul, childlike, pure.
Only one car came along. Other than that the little stretch of road was ours for an hour. We found Columbine and Trillium, May Apple and Violet and several other varieties of wild flowers. We climbed up the bluff for a better view. We saw the changing sun rays highlight first the hollow, then the light green leaves on the ridge. It was more than pleasant. It was renewing.
Such a time of peace effects life in two ways. First, it reminds you of God's original intent. It reminds you of creation and innocence...when the world was young and all was well. It is good to remember.
Such an hour of peace also lengthens the vision, helps you see the distant view. Eyes of faith can see the day when the primal harmonies are fully restored...when the world and the people will be what their Creator intended. Such a time awaits us. In that day the whole creation will no longer groan for redemption. It is good to see even from afar.
But Monday follows Sunday, and in this sense heavy world, after the fall and before the restoration, we must walk by faith. The road is busy and we are often weary. Here it takes more than visions. To keep us steady on this road takes a cross and an empty tomb.
God loves us enough to join us in the way, to stay with us, even to die for us. So take courage. Past, future, and even today...all are in the hand of a loving God.
Portrait of an Early Summer Day
The day was like a spring-risen brook that begins high in the hills, flows down, gathering sun-light, laughing over rocks, swirling through riffles, and then, by evening, slowing to catch the last golden rays, deepening, lingering, before reflecting the twinkling lights of more distant suns, holding the hushed twilight in a gentle quietness.
It was a day of rocks--pink limestone and flint, mineral blossoms and common chert. We found bones like rock scattered across a gully on the edge of a wood.
It was a day of flowers - we found the little wild flowers, soft as baby's skin, peeking out to see if we were still here. The ferns and moss, ancient blooms, were pushing aside old debris, moving earth and leaves to seek (and find) the long summer light.
It was a day of walking the aisles of a wilderness cathedral, towering Sycamore pillars, straight and tall, holding up invisible arches supporting clouds and sky. And music...of the wind, deep throated flutes, and the small trumpets of bird call, the chiff of squirrel, the soaring scale of hawk, rising, lifting the eye and spirit to God's arched firmament.
It was a day of little roads, winding, narrowing, running up the ridge, and breathless descents into hollows.
It was a day of soaring spirit on steady wind, of skipping rocks on river's skin, and hurrying home to hearth and warmth and love. Such a day can only be called blessed.
River "shut-ins" and Living Water
Nothing is more heavenly than water splashing over rocks. Well, yes, there are more heavenly things, but few symbols express the utter beauty, the joy of creation. Doesn't the scripture say that the trees of the field clap their hands for joy? Doesn't St. Paul say that the whole creation "groans" for the redemption coming? Yes? Well, water splashing over rocks sings and shouts to the heavenlies (see Ephesians) as it flows on toward the Kingdom.
I started above the shut-ins, waded in the middle fork of the river until the gravel bottom turned solid and water cascaded downward over solid stone, churning, turning loose stones, dropping over little falls, leaping around laughing children (of all ages), on its way to the spring fed swimming hole below.
It was a day! I stood in the little falls. Slid over the rocks into the shallow pools...there were teachers to show you how. "Sit on this side of the crack when you jump. Then you won't hit the rocks," one ten-year-old tutor explained. "We climb up this way. It's quicker.", shouted another, scrambling up over the rocks. More than the body was washed in fast water. Years were washed away, and weariness passed downstream, forgotten in the exuberance of unbridled joy. Even the "chiseling lines of the shaping years" (Tolkien) were lightened for a time, lifted by smiles and deep laughter.
It was a day...reminding me of living waters.
Eyes to See the Green in Winter
It was another link in the seemingly endless chain of gray winter days. Cold wind chilled you to the bone. I hurried to get into the old building, which was housing a church nursery school. Head tucked down, coat pulled up, I couldn't see anything but the door of the building. My haste was limited only by listening for the little footsteps of my son, who was walking behind me. I stopped when I noticed the silence. The parent in me quickly turned me around. What I saw still amazes and inspires me.
Tom had found something. He was bending over the sidewalk touching something. It was moss, ordinary green moss. He had found the only green thing to be seen that day. Everything else had retreated into winter gray. But for one who wasn't in such a hurry, who had eyes to see, there was something soft, green and growing to be seen. I had walked right over it.
How easy it is to rush through these days, eyes fixed on some goal out there, and miss the beauty that is right under our feet. Now goals are important, and so is determination, but when you hurry through the day intent on what you want to do and where you want to go, you risk missing the blessing available to sensitive eyes. So, I watch for moss on gray days and also for other small treasures around. I'm grateful for the leading of a little child, for this lifetime lesson in awareness. Look for the moss. It's there. . .
Remembering Spring while Knee Deep in Winter
We were knee deep in winter. Storm after storm came through uninvited, hardly leaving time to clean up walks and streets. Old slush was covered with new ice. We did not particularly like it, but we put up with it, knowing that spring rushed toward us at 18 miles a day. Soon the lengthening days would bring a thaw. Next then the crocus would anticipate spring. The seed catalogues were already delivered and gardeners smiled and dreamed and planned. Listen to Robert Frost's words about the certainty of spring:
Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: The snow
may heap
In long storms, an undrifted four feet
deep
As measured against maple, birch and oak,
It cannot check the peeper's silver croak;
And I shall see the snow all go
downhill
In water of a slender April rill . . .
(From "The Onset")
It was down the road but it would come, and it is good to remember God's faithful order knee deep in winter.
Stepping Back in Time by Wading in a Creek
Down through the waters, swift rushing, rock washing the bearers of oldest memory . . . I reached for the bottom with my feet, found my balance on the rocks and waded back into the elder days. How many flowing eons have run over those creek stones? On what strata of time do they reside? Was there any answering of creature to creature? Just the shuffling of molecules and the ancient memory of great catastrophe that separated stream from bank and light from darkness, sea from shore and stone from star?
Remnants of ancient creatures scurried under rocks, turning tiny pincers to the intruding giant stirring up forgotten moss and silt.
Tread lightly in little rivers. Revere the long stream of life flowing from the breaker of darkness. Reverence the source, the Ancient of Days, who shows us time flogged impatients His glistening glory. Catch quickly the light dancing on waters near and distant. Light. Quickly, dear ones.
Through a Storm at Perche Creek Church.
We rode the ridge through the rain and wind. It was an intense little squall. Oak leaves and light branches littered the road. Waves of rain washed the hills, obscuring vision, demanding attention. We looked up the road toward Perche Church, difficult to see in the limited vision of the storm. We were thankful that the creek was still within its banks, safely hurrying on to somewhere, rushing down the long tilt of the continent to the river and the sea. The birds and beasts were not to be seen, most of them safely tucked in some kind of shelter. An old stray dog and a large bull were the only signs of animal life. Even humans, the most peripatetic of creatures, seemed to have avoided the ridge, the road, the woods. So we continued alone on our journey through the storm. I thought of other storms, and of Isaiah 43:1-3. The old prophet had traveled through many. His words sing of strength and hope. "Fear Not! says the Lord. I have redeemed you. I have called you by name. When you go through the waters I will be with you. The rivers will not sweep over you. For I am the Lord, your Savior." Fear not in the storm. We came down off the ridge again, crossed Moniteau Creek on the way to Bonne Femme. Storms and songs often go together.
What was that strange feeling? It was not a "wet" feeling. We have experienced that most of the summer. I clearly knew "wet." It was not "warm." The last month of the summer gave us a certain reminder of the heat and humidity of summer. And what a summer! Filled with flood and fear. Filled also with growth and harvest. Much like life in Missouri. No the feeling was not "warm." It was (I was remembering long ago, back into the early spring.) "cold." Where did this "cold" come from? It had been so long since I had worn a jacket or sweater. Long, long ago I had reached for a light blanket in the night. And in the morning chill my summer straw (cap) did not seem sufficient. Has "felt hat" day come already? Ah, but the cross country team is running. The football team is beginning it's fall ritual. We too must begin the autumnal rites. Is that marching band music I hear? Let us join in with our own rhythm, marching to the Lord's music. What is that feeling? Is it just the seasons stirring the blood, or is it the calling of the Lord of leaf and light fall, the over-natural nudging of the Almighty. El Elyon. May the Most High God let us clearly feel his mighty power, pulling us into the wonderful, cooling days of harvest.
Where is the soul gate through which primal beauty passes immediately to heart? Your eyes tell you that it's just light. Reason rushes to add . . . bent rays on a measurable spectrum occurring at this time of day with predictable regularity. Measurable, certain, candlepower, wavelength . . . but the heart has it's own reasons, beyond the filtering of the finest knowledge.
So the soul gate is opened and primal beauty strikes the heart with a joy echoing with sadness. The clear sky, the reddish hues, the rosy fingered aura of an early winter sunrise tunes melodies beyond the senses. A moment of goodness, revelatory, and the heart sings, "Blessed art Thou, O God, Maker of light and beauty, worlds and wonder. Holy is Thy Name. Bless us with Thy light and breath, now, at our souls new birth, remembering Thy Advent. Bless us . . . and those we love."
I just saw the end of it . . . the little child's arms reaching out, hugging the space in front of him. It was only afterwards I learned of the discussion. "Where is God?" "God is everywhere." "Is he here?" "Yes, He is here." Then the reaching out to find the everywhere present God, and hug him close.
We should pray that our children carry into adult years this warm, fearless, reaching out for a loving heavenly Father, who is alive (though unseen) and close enough to touch.
And perhaps we should re-learn from our little ones that amazing openness to God, praying that we regain that vital sense of God's presence. But our daily faith gets layered over with doubts and fears, with years and miles, with shattered hopes and countless wounds of the spirit. Could it be that somewhere in each of us there is that certain, childlike faith, that joyful awareness of God . . . near enough to reach out and touch? O to release that faith in our lives! To recover its gaiety and its purity! It would be like a re-birth. Aren't you really ready for it?
No it wasn't the fear of not being able to get around, or even of the annual ritual of the snow shovel that prompted me to get up in the middle of the night and look. It was the call of the event itself, powerful, silent, lovely, to which I responded by looking out first this window and then another and another. Did not Robert Frost refer to snow in a woods by saying, "The woods are lovely, dark and deep..."? There is a deep magic about the snow fall.
When was the last time you rode on a sled? Remember the chill wind rushing past your face? Remember the sound of the sled runners in the snow? Remember the rush of speed, as time and trouble were momentarily transcended by this winter flight into joy? How could we ever forget?
Ah yes, the days are made up of much more mundane things: working, walking, buying, cleaning, struggling with time and years. But that wonderful snowfall, which calls to us in the middle of the dark, momentarily reversing light and shadow, reminds us of something...a world more real, timeless, beyond the burden of days. Heaven may send messages on snowy evenings.
The light of early dawn catches the eye. Filtered through layers of cloud and mist, filtered through the frost on the window pane, it opens the windows of the soul. Another day. Can it be another day? And already the ice layers the grass, the ground, the last of the summer's roses. It was just warm and summery, only yesterday. I look in disbelief at the arrival of frost.
The leaves reflect red, deep red. How can a green leaf undergo such a change? It was green, solid green, for the span of its life, a long wet summers worth of greening, now metamorphosed into a deep red. The old season is on one side of the street, the last of the crepe myrtle. The new season of fiery color is just across the street.
Green still stands in the sanctuary. The altar, the pulpit, the lectern all reflect the lengthened season of growth and caring which prevails in holy ground, in missions of wholeness to fallen hopes and dreams, to lives withered and sere. Green. It is a good color for co-inspirators, breathing the ever-warmth of the Spirit, refreshed by the wind which blows true forever. So we gather to rejoice and weep and plan loving forays into the frost covered land, to those no longer warmed by the sun of God's everlasting love. Into the harvest, dear ones. Let us be together and ready for the harvest.
Fall, the Ridgeline, and Permanent Things
The ridgeline stays the same. I've been there a number of times now. Stood in about the same place. Looked steadily at that place where hill meets the sky. It makes a very thin line, traced between earth and air, a flowing line which never moves, the ridgeline.
It is about as unchanging as things get down here. Change the light to shadow. Change shimmering heat to winter chill. It still marks the same unaltered boundary between two elements.
The foliage changes. The hickories are now yellowing. The undergrowth is a dark red. The sycamore leaves take on a brownish hue along their edges, and around holes in the leaves. The oak, of course, is still green. The oak is tough and unyielding, but the line of the ridge changes not regardless of leaf or branch.
In a world of tumultuous change, where you never step twice in the same river (Heraclitus), it is a comfort to actually see something relatively permanent. The ridgeline, now gold and amethyst with sunset light, reminds us that there are permanent things. Beyond the ridgelines of this world is a realm of truth and glory which we only experience in anticipation down here, and that by Gods grace alone.
"We incline our hearts to Thee, Immortal, Invisible, Almighty God, and we remember your unchanging love and mercy. Bless us with your everlastingness in these transitory hours. All praise and glory be unto Thee. Amen."
It was just sitting there -- in pretty good shape. Not many moons ago it was in a person's yard or garage, cleaned and shiny, waiting the next outing, a symbol of adventure. Now it was in the "bone yard." In the bottom you could see a bleach bottle that had been cut to make a scoop. It hadn't been long. Actually it was in the very back lot of a business which specialized in boats and motors, and this was an old boat, traded or sold, and left out in the weather on the backside of nowhere.
Looking around there were lots of old boats. Each could have told a story of adventures -- of bright, eager eyes, of high hopes. But those dreams were changed. Then it struck me that I was standing in a special place, a bone yard of old dreams.
And that's where our earthly hopes and dreams often end . . . in the dusty attic, damp basement, old closet. There are lots of bone yards of dreams around.
But only our earthly centered dreams come to an end. We have another destiny, another set of hills to climb, an eternal destiny to live out, another sea and another set of ships.
How can you not live out of faith in Him Who conquered death through the way of sorrow? How can you think of not giving your life to Him Who gives you the living, eternal waters to drink?
You can't. You simply can't, after you've walked around in a bone yard of someone's dreams. Won't you place your hope in Him today? You'll never be cast aside.
Walking through a small prairie town in summer
The day shimmered. As I looked toward the horizon, trees, barns and houses wavered in the morning heat. Few people were out. Few cars moved. So I was free to walk in the streets of the little prairie town.
I saw what I remembered to be typical yard decor. Here was a small deer, head lifted, never moving, never sensing the wind change. Flying ducks and geese caught the breeze and, unfailingly, faced into it, flailing wings in circles toward the flow. And butterflies...there were multi-colored sets of butterflies on houses, on sheds, on fences. White painted tires held mounds of perennials. Plastic flowers, fading but never dying, lined a white fence row. I saw none of the colorful windsocks which we use to catch the movement of the wind.
I did re-discover the walking hazards in a town without a leash law. A fierce Chihuahua would gnaw my bones if I did not pay suitable homage to his territory. No turf battles with such a terror!
Only children and wandering preachers walked in the late morning sun; children laughing and shouting for the joy of the day, the preacher breathing in memories and remembering the joy of the years.
A Ceiling Fan as a Time Maching
The waves of air washed over me...again and again...covering, cooling. At first I counted them, a sensible human action, as sensible as numbering the night's stars or the blades of grass in a meadow. I came to myself and listened...to the pulsing rhythm, the ceaseless sound. I dropped the numbering, the controlling, and submitted to the power of the depths calling beyond sound and time. I sank beneath the sound . . . back to an ancient time, when there was nothing to do but listen to the sea.
What forces, what origins, what primeval castings are in your depths, where light is shadow? Can we trace the wave to the moment when light and darkness shattered, to that good catastrophe which separated wave and shore . . . to the moment when all the waves were shaped, where all lines met . . . back to the great spoken Word, when molecules leaped and danced, when currents found their motion, at the First?
(Is the salinization of the sea from your tears of joy at creation, O Blessed One, maker of worlds and seas? Is it a hidden sign of that dark salt stream by which our sins are washed away?)
We listen from these shores, and hear echoes of your voice with each wave's sound fall . . . and the cooling, recalls your mercy and loving kindness. We remember Him . . . whom wind and wave obey. And we remember the little sea we cross at the christening of our days. Wave after wave . . . we lift our thanks to Thee.
Take the High Ground and Hold On
It took the high ground and hung on. The cliff was steep and rocky. Not much soil to dig into deeply for nourishment. And the cliffs were hot and dry. But there it was - on a sheer cliff in Morgan's Gap the lonely cedar made it's stand. Carried there as a seed. Borne by unwitting birds who had no idea they were to leave so lofty a sentinel. Fixed forever in my minds eye it stands tall, proud. There is a time when we must take the high ground and find the sparse soil and water, endure whatever wind and weather, within or without. It is costly, but possible - yea essential. There is a time when we are commanded by the God of field and rock and tree to climb and hold on high ground.
Light and Warmth to you today.
The Clock Hand and the Best Days
The metal clock arm swings in its arc, mimicking the movement of sunlight and tide, the wheeling of the great spheres, suns and stars beyond our vision, reminding us. And the yearly records, the memories of days gone by, the ever circling years, echo the truth printed right there on the clock's face . . . tempus fugit. And my own memory adds, from an ancient poet, the words, "the best days are the first to flee." (Optima dies, prima fugit. -- Virgil in the Georgics.)
There is truth . . . True as the light which passes through the leaves. True as the arch in the back, the ache in the bones. Time flies. The other is not as true. Indeed, we pitch our tents each evening a days journey closer to home. The hills of heaven are bright in that ever light, and eternity is not time wracked, and, friend, because of God's love in Jesus the best days are out there, ahead, for those in Him.
He was just floating along, gliding . . . with only a slow movement of wings. Was it the long, blistering days of summer that had taken their toll, and left him sapped of the life that had been his? Was it the sudden change to cooler and wetter weather that caused him to fly listlessly? There he was. I recognized the species . . . summer's last butterfly.
Now there will be more warm days. Surely we will see more soft-wingers, and hear a few more cricket choruses, but not for long. The bird (or butterfly) is on the wing.
Lord, be with us in these swiftly passing days on the far edge of fall. While life is sweet and flight is ours, help us to do our best for you . . . to serve you and your church. May the fall find us working, not on the wane, but growing stronger, to serve you with our best . . . till that last flight . . . out there, where life everlasting waits, and where your wind always carries the butterflies.
Hearing God in Sound and Silence.
Sounds. You hear the weather report, the ambulance siren, the latest interesting news. You hear the sadness in a friends voice. You hear the little joyful sounds newlyweds make as they talk together. Sounds tell us so much. "We are grateful Lord God, Living One, for words -- Thou, God of Words, Who spoke and the worlds leapt forth. Let our words be words of hope."
Silence...when you see the forest and the trees. When the Word blends all sounds, voices, notes, into one sound, flowing softly, clear water over shining rocks, gentle music, cool breezes at sunset. "Blessed One, we thank You for Your silence in us and for the healing work it does there. We thank You for perspective on our moments and days. O God, we offer You all...sounds, silence, moments, days...to You Gracious and Loving God."
Light and Warmth!
I rushed out of the door, down the steps, and was hurrying to the car when I was stopped in my tracks. Something was different. Something had changed, and that change reached out and caught me...held me motionless until I saw what it was.
It was the silence that held me fast...a stillness like I had felt in the wilderness, stillness of ancient stone and star, oak and moss. There was a chill in the air. A cold sun was setting. The trees were still, as if held beyond movement.
It happened in my front yard...a moment, a message...I cannot say for sure. But for a few seconds I felt as if time had ceased and I stood at a still point -- watching, listening. Then a car passed. Voices broke the silence. A breeze stirred, and I was left with a puzzle. Was it an imaginative moment? An epiphenomena?...Something bubbling up out of collective experience? Or, perhaps a message, a reminder of how things are in God's stillness, deeper than fear, rooted in life itself. I knew it was time to pray.
The day ended with a small cluster of reddish light. The windows filtered the last rays of the sun and set them shimmering against the far wall, a blessing from the dying day. I was thankful for the day (and for its ending) and also for the windows, through which the light passed. A windowless room is a bane. Windows are chinks in the walls, letting in the brilliance of the greater world.
In truth, O blessed God, there are occasions, in this sense laden universe, when the purer light of heaven shines through, and we may see and rejoice in a greater Glory, beyond this world. When we see the light slanting through our own windows at evening, we think thoughts like that. And so we thank you, Creator God, for windows and light and your love, a shining reality, personal, true. Blessed are You, King of Kings and Lord of Lords, and blessed is Your revealing to Your children.
He was just a working man. He spoke to me in broken English. (Much better than my broken French.) We talked about the weather. We laughed about some politics. I complimented him on his beautiful country and fluid language. Whether he was really being friendly to me or was just playing "help the tourist," I'll never know. But I will long remember his answer to my question, "Do you know where Missouri is?"
He said, "Isn't that south of Pittsburgh?" I quickly changed the conversation when I realized that he had no idea where Missouri was. We were worlds apart.
I've gone back to that in thought a number of times. Here was a human being with home, family, work, and a network of kinfolks and culture, who never knew (nor, perhaps will know) of all of us living, working, playing in Missouri.
We live in such little worlds . . . insulated from peoples of different languages and values. There are myriad separate little universes and we fit neatly into one or another of them. I know... How could it be otherwise? But it clearly indicates the urgency of remembering that we are co-creations of the Living God. And all those in "other" worlds, from my acquaintance in Quebec to the stranger in the car next to mine, are people for whom Christ died. Doesn't that help break down the walls a bit?
A Brand New Color -- in a flower
It was a color which did not fit in the rainbow. There are seven colors, or so they used to teach, in the visible spectrum; red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. Ultra violet and infrared red are colors we cannot even see. They are there, somewhere off the opposite ends of the rainbow. None of the colors, nor of the names, the memories, the feelings associated with color fit the little wild flower. Is blue a "blue" color? Is it a true color? A cold color? A comforting color? There are blue suits and evening dresses. But this little, living orb, this tiny cluster of life located in a ditch in the forest near Tsar Mountain, on Barnacle Chapel Road, was such a new born color that it could not be named yet. It was creation unnamed. Can anything be that fresh, that new? What about the One who said, "Behold, I make all things new!"? O to be like that, with a cleanness, an unnamed purity, to begin anew, to be born anew. It happens when we stand in the mercy of the Holy. Do you need that? What could keep you from it?
Find the Holy on holy ground.
Messages from the Salem Cemetery
It was a message from beyond. They come from time to time, or at least it seems like it. I was standing in the old historic cemetery in Salem, Massachusetts. Graves there went back into the sixteen hundreds. Salem is known for its maritime history, many American ships sailed into her harbor during the Revolutionary War. Salem is also known for its action toward some alleged witches...an occurrence which the town seems to want to forget and exploit simultaneously. The grave stone that caught my attention was the one erected in memory of Mrs. Mehetabel Mottey, who died in 1801. She was the wife of a sea captain. Her name is found in the Old Testament, in Genesis and again in Chronicles. It was the name of the wife of one of the Edomite kings. It means, "favored of God." There on her stone was engraved the following verse:
What though thy wisdom has decreed
Our flesh to see the dust;
Yet as the Lord and Savior rose,
So all his followers must.
I stood there for a time, reflecting on this testament of a long forgotten saint. It seems to be a message for all times, following the first Easter. We will not be left in the dust. With Mrs. Mottey and all the saints, we will find life anew on the other side of darkness. I sang a resurrection tune as I left the old cemetery.
Tread Lightly in Little Rivers
Down through the creek waters, swift rushing, rock washing, flowing over the bearers of this old body . . . I reached for the creek bottom with my feet, found my balance on the rocks and waded back into the elder days. How many flowing aeons have rushed over those creek stones? On what strata of time do they reside? Was there any answering of creature to creature? Just the shuffling of molecules and the ancient memory of great catastrophe that separated stream from bank and light from darkness, sea from shore and stone from star?
Remnants of ancient creatures scurried under rocks, turning tiny pincers to the intruding giant stirring up forgotten moss and silt.
Tread lightly in little rivers. Revere the long stream of flowing life back to the breaker of darkness. Reverence the Source, the ancient of Days, who shows us time flogged impatients His glistening glory. Catch quickly the light dancing on waters near and distant. Light. Quickly, dear ones.
Dreams and Poems and Life Everlasting
I found it on my desk. Written in lovely red, a child-like (which is not at all "childish") handwriting . . . it was a gift, one of my favorite kinds, a poem, to wit.:
You can dream on a cloud
Or on a sunny sky.
You can dream anywhere
Your heart can fly.
Dreams! How important. Remember Jacob's dream and Joseph's dream-reading. Remember the dreams of Magi and another Joseph . . . dreams which saved the life of the Child?
The question that always comes to me about dreams is: "Have you been true to your dreams?" Have you followed the vision, sometimes given in younger years? I remember the hill and the campfire and the vow not lightly taken. A good thinking question. Have you been true to the dreams of your youth? It's not too late. What a time to remember and renew our dreams.
The little one who wrote the poem died in a car wreck when she was in high school. I will remember her smile and her dreams, now caught up the the realities of God's realm.
The rains came . . . gentle showers and then hard pounding hail . . . to herald the turning. The sound of wind and rain alone marked the arrival of seed time. We were glad for the change from winter to spring.
Seed catalogues put away. Some gardens in, some to come. We relished those days of earth warming and seed planting . . . onion sets and seed potatoes.
Watching for rainbows, we offered our thanks, Blessed God, for Your providence. The little eyes of spring opened. The songbirds sang Your praise. We rejoiced and remembered Your promise, and we anticipated the first lettuce. How good and gracious are Your mercies. How constant and faithful are Your ways.
It was faster than I had remembered . . . and being so close to the earth moving by called for a quick rearranging of my senses. It was a feeling I had forgotten. But remembering was pleasant. I remembered days and night of snow, and long wooded hills straightened by swift steel runners . . . and children's voices echoing through snow filled hollows . . . frozen creek beds turned to skating rinks. That was long ago. But here and now the earth came rushing right by. The little ridge of ice in the middle kept thrusting me toward the edge. Breathlessly I balanced and held on. Too soon the journey was over . . . like the best of days. (Optima dies prima fugit.) So I climbed off the sled and eyed the top of the hill . . . it has grown longer over the years.
Butterfly on the Casket -- a true story
Right on the edge of the grave I intoned the ancient words, always more comforting than their face value -- the old words of the faith which carry faith's memory and future . . . " The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?" And, "If this earthly tent we live in is destroyed . . . " And, "Jesus said, 'I am the resurrection and the life . . .'" I stood at the edge of the grave . . . you should see a preacher's-eye view of it.
Then, before these eyes, the meaning of the faith words was revealed. A lovely butterfly flew right to the casket flowers, paused a few short seconds and took flight. I thought, "Butterfly, once cocoon wrapped in airless dark, now soaring in the sunlight of a new day, you point to the promise. The resurrection is real. Life goes on in some new splendor, within the realm of God's mercy."
Can anyone, having seen a butterfly, not believe in resurrection? Can anyone, having seen the risen Lord, through faith's eyes, believe any less?
I'm thankful today for music . . . for the hymns I learned as a child. I can still hear, in memory, the booming voice of an old Sunday School Superintendent: "Others, Lord, yes, others, let this my motto be. Help me to live for others, that I may live like Thee."
I remember the loving voice of a primary Sunday School teacher who taught many youngsters to sing "Jesus Loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong, they are weak, but He is strong."
An elderly pastor, who led the little flock in my hometown, would often have us sing his favorite: "Work, for the night is coming, when man's work is done . . . " He led us through a difficult time in the life of our small church.
"Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me . . . melt me, mold me, fill me, use me. Spirit of the Living God, fall afresh on me." The campfire danced, and the flames leaped high toward heaven as we sang those words at a church youth camp in the hills of Missouri, long ago.
So, I'm thankful for music today, and all those connected with the song. Every now and then these memories come calling to bless the present hours, to fill them with song, and I take up the refrain and sing.
Light and Warmth in the Lord.
We all enjoy it. It's a basic human action, rooted deep in human life. I refer to laughter.
When did you last laugh? When you read the poster that said you know you are getting older when your knees buckle but your belt won't. When someone told you that the certain sign of middle age is when you burn the midnight oil at nine o'clock.
Laughter emerges from situations in which something is out of joint, displaced. And since the old teachings tell us that we, as displaced creatures, are out of joint, I take it that humor is rooted in human nature, reminding us of the Fall, and of our hope. Why laugh if there is no hope?
Laughter (the genuine sort of course, not mere flippancy) is a reminder of paradise -- that at one time things were not out of joint. It is also a signal of transcendence, a sign that there really is a realm of perfection, beauty, and symmetry, where wrongs will be righted, and joy is the everyday state of things, a realm accessible to us in Christ Jesus. It is there. Our laughter points to it.
Laughter. (Wesley said that sour godliness is the devil's religion.) Let us reach beyond ourselves for that gift and what it symbolizes.
Light and Warmth to you this day.
It was a different world, a microcosm of activity. Some of it I could see, these human telescopes scanning the small depression in the creek bed. I could see the giants moving in that world . . . swift, silvery, darting, pincer or fin. Much of it was beyond my vision, the activity in those tiny life forms whose edges are traced only by a microscope. A watery world we could not inhabit, could not consume without first cleansing with chemical or scorching heat.
How wide is that little world? How far from horizon to horizon for the inhabitants? What suns? What shining? How constant the changing flow . . . sun and shower, rise and fall? And everywhere the constant pushing of molecules journeying down the long tilt of the continent to the sea. It is instructive to look into another world.
Ah, but my own calls me. I must go and fill my own time, reemerge in my own elements. I acknowledge that little world, and the myriad worlds. I marvel in the levels of creation. How great is the Creator who fills all the pockets of creation with life, constant and flowing from Source to source. This little pocket of life praises such, bows before Him, longs to fulfill His appointed will in this swift moving, sun sparkled flow of life's waters. O, to be found faithful in one's own very small world... faithful.
Light and Warmth,
Willard Spencer
writings compiled and edited during Advent, 2001