​Martin
By Kathy Fuller Guisewite
January 21, 2019
 
Oh, what would he tell us?
Oh, what would he say
to help us bring justice to
our land this day?
 
And what about kindness?
And what about peace?
Have we lost all possibility
of sweet release?
 
We’re gritting our teeth,
and we try to hang on,
but insanity reigns
as we march with our songs.
 
How can our nation
be so far from what’s real?
How can we conquer the
zealot’s fake zeal?
 
Is there any hope left
that we can still find
a way to the truth
that is loving and kind?
 
Can we live out his dream?
Can we learn to unite
as a humanity created
equal in the Maker’s sight?
 
Oh, what would he tell us?
Oh, what would he say
to help us bring justice to
our land this day?
 
Grow not weary
in pursuit of what’s pure.
Lean on God’s truth
to find what’s secure.
 
Stand steady for those
who’ve been pushed to the ground
whose beauty need not be lost
to the powers that abound.
 
Remember the words
pressed deep in your being.
Honor them and live them for
what’s shallow is fleeting.
 
What remains is his legacy,
his lessons, and the call
that humanity be kindred
to prevent the divided fall.
 
So today as we remember,
may our spirits rise anew
to do the work before us
as Martin urged we do.

The one day that he spoke of
may not be so far away
if we keep working for the dreams
day by day by day.

​My Grandma was walker.
No matter the season or weather,
she was called to get outside and walk…
for her body, her mind, and her spirit.
 
My Mom was and still is a walker.
In her working days, she walked there…
sometimes out of necessity,
sometimes for the exercise,
but most often (as a mother of three children
and a teacher of preschool children),
she walked as a measure of self-care and
self-preservation.
She, too, found new life in the fresh air,
in the bird songs, and the neighbor’s greetings.
When someone she loved was going through
a trying time,
her kind suggestion of taking a walk
would often wondrously help to ease the load.
 
My Grandma and my Mom walked
to the hospital
when my Mom went into labor with me.
It was late, on a cold December night
when walking together seemed the
most natural thing to do.
I guess you could say, that was our first
big walk together… three generations of
women finding strength and love under the stars
in the cold night air.
 
And this morning, on my winter walk
all these many years later,
I find we are still walking together.
My Grandmother is on the other side, but her essence
shines through with the morning sun.
My Mom now walks a bit slower and often with her
arm linked in mine or Dad’s,
but she still finds great release
in taking a walk where something can shift,
something can give way that frees her.
 
And I give thanks as I walk with my eyes
to the mountains
and my heart to the sky
that the walking wisdom of my Grandma
became my mother’s
so it could
become mine as well.
 
*********************************************************************
 
Walking Home from Oak-Head
By Mary Oliver
 
There is something
about the snow-laden sky
in winter
in the late afternoon
 
that brings to the heart elation
and the lovely meaninglessness
of time.
Whenever I get home - whenever -
 
somebody loves me there.
Meanwhile
I stand in the same dark peace
as any pine tree,
 
or wander on slowly
like the still unhurried wind,
waiting,
as for a gift,
 
for the snow to begin
which it does
at first casually,
then, irrepressibly.
 
Wherever else I live -
in music, in words,
in the fires of the heart,
I abide just as deeply
 
in this nameless, indivisible place,
this world,
which is falling apart now,
which is white and wild,
which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith,
our deepest prayers.
Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
Red-cheeked from the roused wind,
 
I'll stand in the doorway
stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
my shoulders
covered with stars.
 

On a recent walk, it came to my heart to name three words that I love… words that I lean on, words that I use nearly every day.  The first word that surfaced was the word ‘savor’.  When reviewing the dictionary definition, I was excited to read this: ‘to delight in, to enjoy slowly in order to appreciate it fully.’  Yes!  This is why I love this word.  I love to savor beauty and time with people and quiet time with God.  To savor is to be present, fully.  To savor is to take time and allow the pressures of ‘hurry up’ to rest.  To savor is to discover the gifts right before our very eyes. 
 
The next word that surfaced was the word ‘lovely.’  Isn’t it lovely?  It’s such a precious word, so full of joy and ease, thanksgiving and attention.  This definition includes:  enjoyable and pleasant, kind and exquisitely beautiful.  Wow!  Don’t you love that?  I mean, I say all the time to folks, “I wish you a lovely day!”  And so I am actually wishing you exquisite beauty and pleasant kindness.  Yay!  That just feels so good!!
 
And the third word to bless me was trust.  Trusting doesn’t happen for me as easily as savoring and honoring what is lovely.  Trust is something I practice… daily and moment by moment.  Trust interrupts feelings of fear and those things that hold me back.  Trust encourages patience and hope and reminds us to keep loving.  Trust is what I lean heavily on for myself and for those I love and pray for in the most difficult of times.  I often say, “I will trust with you that God is present and at work in this circumstance.”  The definitions include:  to have a firm belief in the truth, reliability, ability or strength of something or someone, and to have confidence in.  I trust that the Creator of all that I savor and all that is lovely, is loving and kindhearted, and this same Creator trusts every day that we will learn how to trust in this love.  I believe that we are called to trust in “whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things and the God of peace will be with you” (Philippians 4:8).
 
We are standing at the edge of a New Year, and we’re all going somewhere.  We are not called to go back, to live in the past or to mourn without hope our mistakes, our losses, or our wounds.  We are not called to jump so far ahead that we also grieve what is not yet time to be.  We are called to arrive here… to this moment, to this new day, this new chance to be fully alive and fully loving.  We are called to know ourselves and love ourselves, so that we may better know and love others.  I believe, as we peer into the New Year, that God is yearning for us to be happy, to be whole, to be pure vessels of what has always been intended for us… that we see what is lovely, that we savor our blessings, and we trust that God is with us and we are loved and held on the journey’s paths. 
 
May the words that call to you at the edge of this New Year, enable you to love, to savor, and to trust the bountiful life God has created for you… wherever you are and wherever you may go.

​Christmas Eve 2018
Dear Spirit of Christmas,
 
I am praying to you today as you are wide as the sky and loving as the sun and as compassionate as the moon.  You are ancient and wise.  You are the essence of what it is to be holy and humane.  You are Creator God, Blessed Mother Mary, sweet Baby Jesus, and the unnamable mystery that is sometimes called Santa.
 
I believe in the purest truths of Christmas.  I believe it is a time not just of miracles, but a time for us to open our hearts to miracles and miraculous wonderings and wanderings.  I believe that the God of love, the Spirit of Christmas longs for us to take off the shroud of dusty unrealized dreams and lay them open to the night skies of Christmas eve… and trust… again and again that the way is opening up.  We may wait a long time.  We may not see the artistry taking place, but like wind chimes that move and sing by way of invisible musician’s hands, the Christmas Spirit is stirring.
 
I believe that the Blessed Mother Mary cherished the tears she wept both out of joy and sorrow and that she can fully comfort us in all the bitter sweetness of this life.  She prays with us and for us with the purest of hearts that in our waiting and in our longing, we find peace to sustain us and the will to be faithful to our God.  Our dreams, the dreams we dare not say aloud for fear of breaking them, she holds and blesses so we need not feel alone in our yearnings.
 
I believe that Baby Jesus loved.  He loved that stinky stable.  He loved his sweet Mama and his precious Daddy, and he found delight in the cows and sheep and He loved them, too.  He loved the darkness of night and the stars that begged Him to look.  He loved the guests, the journeys, the wonder.  And he reminds us to allow what is present to be enough, to be the joy, and to be the love that steadies us in all and through all.
 
And I believe that tonight, there will be sleigh bells all around this world.  They will ring with hope that every child of God will tend the dreams and prayers that long to be realized.  Santa lives most fully, no doubt, in the hearts of all the dreamers who never cease to believe that what has not yet been possible, can still push up through the sod and be made known.
 
And so once again on this blessed Christmas Eve, I will lift my face and my heart, my prayers and my dreams to the holy winter sky and believe that the Spirit of Christmas is with us and for us.  Ah, yes.  Perhaps the bells ring not so much to help us to believe, but to remind us that God still believes in us.  O, Holy Night… come and be welcomed.

​The setting sun put her hand on her hip
and spoke with great sass to the clouds.
She said, “I’ve had about enough of you.  This grey
party is over.  Scram!”
 
The clouds
stomped their little feet, huffed and puffed for a time,
but then quietly moved along.
As they did, the sky gave way to darkness and
the marvelous moon rising over the sleepy mountains brought
joy back to the sky.
His moonbeams cast comfort
over the valley houses
where worries, also, fell away from
the people who lived there.
 
Sometimes,
we have to be strong.
Sometimes,
we have to show some sass.
And sometimes,
we are blessed to just lean back
in the glory of what
has finally come
and rest our heads,
rest our hearts,
in the holy light of peace and love.
 
For Mom and Dad
With great love,
Kathy
November 21, 2018

​Last night’s sleep was fretful.  It felt like I was sick with some kind of invisible toxin that ate at my spirit.  As a west coast friend was also up, she asked if I could pray.  I had to think about it for a moment.  It took me to a time when I prayed that my father not have cancer for a second time, and yet he did.  I am familiar with the prayerful waters that can both soothe and disturb, and so, I questioned if I could pray in a way that would not disturb me further in the dark spaces of night.  I could not.
 
Today, I am home with a quiet morning.  I have found myself wandering, trying to plug into some healthy joy, or some necessary chore.  I give thanks so naturally for the breeze, the birdsongs, the sound of my mother’s voice on the other end of the phone… and yet I still feel so ill, so troubled.
 
There is a toxic undercurrent that is gnawing in these times.  Souls like mine can roam around in beauty and peace and still feel the tiny teeth.  I try to practice what I preach and not only pray when I can, but advocate, speak up, do my own soul work, and extend kindness. But on days like today, when I struggle to find the words to pray, when the tilt of political madness stumbles me up… I light candles and sit with Mary.  She doesn’t seem to need my words or worry when I get lost.  She just sits with me in gentle understanding.
 
I shall stay close to her today as I carry this soulful burden.  She’ll help me hold the cool compresses to the sorrows of our nation. She’ll remind me that love is steadfast, and that while my father faced cancer for a third time, he still calls me by name with tenderness and joy.

​It’s time to purge myself of some troubling thoughts.  I’m going to do this for me, but anytime I put pen to paper, I hope someone else receives a blessing or a relief or just a good laugh that we’re all only human.
 
I have dear friends who are spending time together in Italy.  I actually officiated their wedding, and they are the sweetest couple.  They took off for this grand adventure and have been posting their travel photos in real time for all of us back home to view.  It’s their way of including us, of taking us with them… again such a kind thing to do!
 
But I have only looked at a few.  It’s reminiscent of a time when I couldn’t go to baby showers because I couldn’t birth a baby of my own.  You know how happy everyone is, how joy is such a present, palpable state, and how we are called to engage such bliss!  But I felt fake when I tried because my own loss was too close.  Jealousy is such a strong, ugly word that I really don’t like to tie that to my being, but what came to me this morning as the rain fell down is the emotion below the jealousy… which was grief then… and grief now.
 
I want to be married, and I’ve been on my own for over twenty years.  I’ve done my work.  I’ve said my prayers.  I’ve shown up both in person and online!  But I’m still waiting.  And I want to travel.  I want to go to Italy, to Austria, to see the Grand Canyon, to witness the migration of butterflies in Mexico, and to slowly and with heart-felt intention to take in God’s greatness in places I’ve never seen.  The catch is… I want to go with my husband.  I want to make those memories with him.  Maybe, one day, I’ll travel with my daughter and make precious memories with her.  Or maybe, one day, I’ll go with a bunch of girlfriends and just laugh my way through foreign countries!  Maybe I need to do these trips as I wait for my beloved.  Maybe he is waiting for me there, eh?
 
But there are hours to work here, and people to tend, and an unexpected ER visit that needs to be paid.  So, for today, I acknowledge the sadness and try to love what is before me, what is present in my own backyard.  I take in the sound of the rain and the wind in my daughter’s gift of wind chimes.  I let my feet walk me down country roads so entwined with beauty that I imagine Italians wanting to come and walk beside me here.  I light candles as I wash my dishes, and give thanks for the humbleness of my life even as I am aware of how much I have.
 
And I try to make peace with the parts of me that cannot look at my friend’s photographs.  I go to baby showers now with great joy… so I know our hearts can heal, can grow bigger, and more open.  And I pray for any of you who also carry tenderness in the midst of another’s joy.  Such bitter-sweetness this life holds.  Maybe we can simply let it be until only the sweetness lingers.

​Today is Good Friday.  It’s a day Christians are called to remember the sacrifice Jesus made that we might welcome the true mysteries and wonders of love. In remembering, there is the hope that we might decide to live life less selfishly and with more devotion to the causes of God.  It is a somber day, a day when we look into the face of great injustice, violence, grief, and the frailities and fragmentations of the human spirit, and we mourn that centuries after the death of Christ… we are still hurting one another.
 
We, who have grown up in the church, annually engage with the sadness of Good Friday, the weary mourning of Saturday, and then the jubilant celebration of new life Easter Sunday morning.  The problem is in our day to day living we can easily become lost in the burdens that rise up so regularly.  We find Good Friday in the news again and again as we divide and conquer rather than unite and serve.  We bury the children.  We warehouse the aged.  We turn our backs on the marginalized while we revere the noise of wealth and power.  We forget that we are created in the image of God and that image is beautiful, holy, and wise.
 
This morning, I found a blackbird feather in my front yard.  So strikingly black on the ground, it felt like a symbol of this day of sadness.  Yet, as I picked it up, the black gave way to the irredescent blues that caught the light and sparkled, and I found myself smiling at God’s creativity and compassion.  We do not need to remain a broken people.  We need not stay at the foot of the grave or tomb and believe this is the end of the story.  We need only to turn towards the light to catch a glimpse of the fullness of life.  Christ is with us.  Christ is within us.  May Christ be found in our living, in our loving, and in our determination to help one another on our way to Easter morning.
 

​The Spring Snowfall
 
It is the first day of Spring,
and yet, it is a snowy morning.
Nothing glares.  Nothing speaks loudly.
The holy hush is palpable for there is more to
the billows of white than meets the eye.
 
Shall we light the candles and say the
prayers we forgot yesterday?
 
Shall we release the burden of sorrows and
the narrow minded landscape that shrouds
our dreaming?
 
Oh, with joy, the stillness is beckoning
our rushing to rest…
to grow quiet enough to remember
how unexpectedly
our hearts can be filled.
 
Kathy Fuller Guisewite
March 21, 2018

I’ve not seen a bird discouraged.
I’ve nursed many a feathered friend found after some fall or entanglement or left for dead by some taunting cat, but I never saw discouragement in their eyes, only gratitude and determination.
Be not discouraged.  Broken birds still find the sky.
 
I’ve not seen a winter downhearted.
I’ve seen them stark and sparse.  Trees barren against the cold winds.  Earth all shades of spent brown. But I never witnessed a winter cry as it melted into spring.  I never felt it ask for more.
Be not downhearted.  Winter stands satisfied with what is.
 
I’ve not heard the leaves fearful.
I’ve watched them grow green from narrow branches.  I’ve taken shade in their glory days and heard them chant lullabies to the stars on windy nights.  But I never heard them express fear. Their green changing to orange and yellow and red and the final brown bow proceeding their fall to earth.
Be not fearful.  Leaves dance all the way down.
 
I’ve not heard the rocks overwhelmed.
I’ve seen them pushed by water and worn into smoothness they did not ask for.  I’ve seen them fall from great mountain heights and land in ways that shattered them.  But I never heard them express overwhelm by what was out of their control. 
Be not overwhelmed.  Rocks are steadfast in peace.
 
We are not birds nor winter nor leaves or rocks.
We are not meant to disengage the heart and mind in ways that make us inhuman,
and yet there is solace in their ways.
The geese fly their sacred skyways, singing as they go.
And we?
We need not lose hope in this winding life, bewildering as it may be.
We must simply bear our souls to the Breath that is life and
sigh our sighs with longing and with joy.

Kathy Fuller Guisewite
January 27, 2018