​My Dad (who is 81 and who has knocked down 2 types of cancer) is one amazing young man!  Today, I had the privilege of helping him work in the lean-to.  It’s simply a little storage shed behind his barn where clay pots and collections of dried flower seeds, and rakes and hoes hang out.  There is also a rather large collection of wood… planks and boards that seem to be leftovers from a variety of projects.  Well, Dad said he had been dreading working back there due to the high probability of snakes and spiders, but if I were up to it, we could work on getting rid of all that wood this morning.
 
So, we gloved up, put on our best yard boots, and headed out to take on the unknown.  Now what you must know is that my Dad is famous for always seeing brown recluse spiders.  He is also famous for spotting black widows.  We have joked over the years that if you see a spider it has be one of those two, because that’s what Dad would say!  He was also fully expecting us to uncover a snake or maybe a family of snakes under all that wood.  Now, at this point, if you are a snake fan or a lover of spiders, you might not read any further.  Dad is not of the mindset to catch and release.  Dad is of the mindset to not be bitten or have anyone he loves be bitten.  Hoes and hammers were readily available to defend as we loaded the pickup with the old wood.  We didn’t encounter the first snake, but let me tell you… the black widows were abundant (and not just because they are one of the two spiders Dad always names.)  I don’t typically wig out over spiders, but today I did!  Dad hammered those suckers like they were gonna rise up like some creature from the black lagoon!  They did not stand a chance.
 
The other thing that did not stand a chance was this old, open bookcase that held the wood.  The shelves were made of wood, but the sides were metal.  Dad decided it was no good, and he wanted to take it to the dump with the wood.  The problem was, the wood and the metal had to be separated in order for the dump to accept it.  He would have to take the whole thing apart.  (I am standing there thinking… uhh… this is gonna be a project!)  First, he got his drill to unscrew the screws holding each shelf to the metal part.  No can do.  Old screws were there for life.  I’m standing there saying, “Dad, this is too hard.  Let’s work on this another day.”  And off he goes to get something else.  Next, he tries using a big hammer to knock it apart.  No can do.  “Dad, listen, we’ve both worked hard getting all that wood into the truck.  Let’s call this one.”  “Nope.  I can do it.  It’s not that hard!”  Next thing I know, he came out of the barn with his sledge hammer, and he is telling me to stand back… this thing is going down.  And down comes that sledgehammer.  Repeatedly, he smashed the wood and the metal sides totally apart.  He was victorious, and I just shook my head and laughed my heart out. 
 
For years, I’ve witnessed my Dad take on projects like this.  One year he helped me clear my woods.  And after hauling a ton of brush out and loading it onto the truck, I’d stand there saying, “Uhh, Dad.  The truck is full.  We can’t possible put more on this load.”  And he’d say, “Nonsense!”  And he’d bounce himself up on that truck and stomp and jump on the load of brush until we could put at least that much more on top.
 
Anytime, I could ride shotgun in the truck with Dad, I would… because he loves that truck and hauling anything and everything to the dump in that thing.  We could have a load of stinky trash that we’d have to drive miles to the dump, but I would be happy as a clam riding with Dad in his truck.  Today was the same.  We hauled all that miserable wood to the dump, and we were tired, but we were perfectly content.  And on the way home, we stopped at the farmer’s market for cantaloupe and Hanover tomatoes.  My, goodness!  What a treat.  We even split a yellow peach between us as we hopped back into the truck, not even worried about the sticky juice spilling down our arms on the ride back.
 
My Dad will not be defeated.  He will look cancer in the eyes and say, “Not today you bastard.”  He’ll hammer the stuffings out of black widows.  He’ll raise a sledgehammer (that I can barely carry back to his barn) 50 times to smash something that needs smashing.  And then before I have even caught my breath from just watching him, he’ll be onto the next project… before finally stopping for a rest.  For all of my life, I will welcome the chance to sweat alongside of my Dad on some outdoor project, to stand with him beneath trees in quiet reverence, and to laugh out loud as his tenacity outsmarts the most stubborn of tasks.  Here’s to you, Dad.  Thanks for teaching me where there’s a will there’s a way… and beside you is the dearest way I’ve ever known.

I will walk in the tender garden
where weed and wildflower delight.
Unaware of the need to be perfect,
they live simply without fret or might.
 
I will walk in the tender garden
where my burdens can be set free.
The colors and natural beauty
are present to comfort me.
 
I will lose the noise that spins round in my head.
I will bare the heart that is mine.
I’ll follow the tiny nudges
spun by web and tree and time.
 
My loving God will meet me here
with only one request…
that I lean into the arms of kindness
and allow all other to rest.
 
So, I give thanks for this tender garden
a haven that welcomes the soul.
Weary or forgotton, lost or sad…
here we are surely whole.

​When the being is spent, and the mind cannot quiet the clatter of the knots beckoning to be untangled… take a walk in nature.  Allow all the analyzing to rest.  Invite the need for answers to sit by the wayside.  Ask only what is present to be present.  Let all else fall away.  Walk.  Breathe.  Listen.  Look.  The path knows the way.  Simply follow.  Soon the senses will become awake as the veil of ambiguity and social numbness leave your being.  The rhythm of your walking feet will soothe the mind into trusting that it no longer needs to be the leader on this venture.  What heals here is not what is not thought through but what is welcomed intuitively like a cool breeze through a screen door.  No maps, guides, or mileposts needed.  Simply walk, breathe, listen, look.  It is enough to fill the lungs with air.  It is sufficient to allow eyes to tend colors and ears to behold sound.  Be and become what is present.
 
Birds flying freely
River flowing
Wind that cannot be caught
Stone warmed by sun
Flowers wildly pushing through winter soils
 
Take these small morsels and be fed.
 
Keep walking.  Keep following the unfettered path until everything has taken wing.
All burdens, all confusion, all sorrows, all unrest are feathered and fleeing in soft release.
 
The sun has yet to be extinguished, nor your soul.
 
So keep walking until you find yourself home.

My Christmas Cactus is blooming in the midst of the season of Lent.  It's vibrant and gorgeously pink and has an attitude of wild abandon.  It bloomed throughout November and December, took a break, and is bustin' loose again just for the fun of it.  Or maybe, there really is something to inanimate objects picking up vibes and returning them to the atmosphere.  

You hear of houses holding the memories and feelings of those who once lived there.  I remember Maya Angelou talking once about the walls taking in our words and giving them back to us.  But this is slightly different.  Perhaps this Christmas Cactus has been absorbing my weariness, my heaviness, and rather than grow dull and lifeless... this plant is holding out healing to me.

2017 has found me confused, dazed, wandering, and wondering.  What happens to our souls, to our psyche, when that which has made sense, and that which has been blessing is disregarded, dismissed, and dismantled?  The scope of this is broad and the depth is so deep the soul can grow weighted and weary.  It is not of the imagination that the tilt of our human experience, these days, is keeping us off-balanced and overwhelmed.
 
So when something shows up that is beautiful and delightful and generous and spontaneous... we must allow that which is so needy and thirsty and aching in us to rise up and welcome it. 
Come, weary as you are, to the love that is always eager to hold you.  You are never alone.

To:  JK, MH, NRP, LB, MT

I believe that your voice is well-meaning.  I believe that your negativity and worry are only meant to improve and keep my life safe.  I think your prodding and skillful demands for achievement and success are meant to add life to my life and also to the lives of others.
 
But here’s the thing.  I don’t think your versions of achievement and success are my versions.  And the worry, well it makes me so tired and bored.  And the pushing is simply uncalled for.
 
Thanks for your contributions, but for now, I’m going to send you on a long vacation.  I’m choosing to listen to voices that have been pretty much drowned out by your volume.  I’m bringing on board the following friends:
 
Wide Open
Faith
Trust
Possibility
Generosity
And last but not least, Whimsy
 
What if living closest to that which make me most awake and happy is where I am meant to live?
What if feeding my truths means I am also feeding the truths of others?
What if what is at my very core becomes fully flesh?
What if fitting in becomes excused from this story and busting loose is finally welcomed?
 
I know you are proud of how well for 5 decades I’ve followed your leading.  But we’ve all got to cut those apron strings, and I’m picking up my scissors today.  When you come back from your vacation, I realize you will have much to say… and I will listen.  I’m just giving you fair warning that by that time, I will have become the teacher and you the student.  So, take your vitamins, rest up, and see if you can locate inside of you the still, small voice that has been yearning to speak for years.  We both know she wants to be heard.  I promise I’ll give you a safe space in which to welcome her.

This image was what I saw to the right of me today at Quaker Meeting.  We joyfully sat out under the backyard tree for our worship, and glorious, it was.  The breeze was akin to a baptism, washing hope all over the place.  The cicadas sang their own harmonies, and the tree stood tall and wide enough to shade all of us like a Big Mama hugging all of her children tight.
 
Earlier, this morning, I attended another worship service in a more formal setting.  It was a hymn that blessed me there.  It blessed me because I want to be faithful in what is unknown.  One of my greatest struggles is that I feel that the world around me expects me to know... to know what is required in this life, to plug in, to join the status quo, and blend in.  Instead, I seem to wander, not because I'm lost but because I'm on a mission to follow where God leads me.  I want to live true to my Maker's dreams for my life and the lives of those around me.  If I cannot live true to God's yearnings for my life, what am I living for? My voice choked as I sang, "Will you come and follow me if I but call your name?  Will you go where you don't know and never be the same?  Will you let my love be shown, will you let my name be known, will you let my life be grown in you and you in me?  Will you love the you you hide if I but call your name?  Will you quell the fear inside and never be the same?  Will you use the faith you've found to reshape the world around, through my sight and touch and sound in you and you in me?" 

With all of my heart, I am saying, "Yes." 

God is calling my name and your name in every moment of every day.  I want to keep practicing hearing that.  I want to fall open and stay open like that wheelbarrow on the hill and take  in everything that comes... and never be the same.  Tell me, my friend, how are you coming alive today?  How are you calming the fears that challenge your faith?  How are you deciding to never be the same for the love of that which matters the most to you?  Practice trusting.  Practice listening for love and hope.  Practice honoring the you that has been created for goodness and gladness.  Practice welcoming all that is unknown as you find your way.

 

I'm at a new juncture.  Well, it's new for this moment, but so very familiar in my life's living.  It's another bend in the road that asks me to turn from the clear path towards what is unknown.  I have it in my head that we're supposed to have a plan, a charted course for our lives, and that the better we follow that plan and stick to that map, the happier and more secure we will become.  I've tried this approach over and over again, but I seem to always find myself at some new twist or turn that begs me to trust what is next even when it is not remotely on the map.  I can be quite frustrated by this, especially when I witness so many others on a straight path that seems so well groomed and simple. 

Today, I spent the morning honoring the old fashioned ritual of handwriting letters to those close to my heart.  It's slow, this pen to paper experience.  I opened the windows wide, sipped tea and listened to flute music as I remembered loved ones in this way.  Slow is good for my soul.  And tending others with care and thoughtful purpose brings me closer to my Maker and my joy.  After I went to the post office, I decided to come home via the back roads.  It takes longer, which again, is only good for me, and I stopped all along the way to pick wildflowers.  There were honeysuckle and sweet peas, and purple clover.  No other cars.  No other noise... just gravel and corn fields and sky and wind.  Outside of time and worry, the birds and flowers reminded me that this time and this place is all that it is meant to be.  This moment leads to the next and how we cup each moment blesses the following one.

I don't want to be afraid of what is unknown.  I want to follow every bend, every unexpected joy and disappointment with faith likened to that of each caterpillar that ever let go of solid ground... for sky.  Oh, yes.  It sounds dreamy.  But learning to trust takes time and energy and determination.  Maybe some folks come by this naturally, but for me, it is a practice I continue to refine.  Some days, I work so hard at trusting, I sweat, scream, and cry.  And other days, like today, I stand in the rain and do nothing but breathe deep sighs of relief that all will be well as ever it shall be well.

Rivers run without a care following the pull of some unknown source.
I, too, lovingly follow.

It never surprises me to rise on a Good Friday morning and open my blinds to a cloudy sky.  Since I was a teenager, this is how I remember Good Fridays.  And rightfully so, wouldn’t you agree.  The saddest day in the Christian year should be cloudy.  I’ve always found it comforting to attend funerals in the rain.  All those God tears running with our own and pooling at our feet.  That just says to my heart that God understands our pain and our grief.
 
And in the midst of the bright yellow daffodils and the green, green of grass that I have been yearning for all winter, it is really okay with me to embrace this grey, wet day as a measure of love and attention.  Lots of people have heavy hearts.  People who are smiling on the outside are aching on the inside.  Loved ones are fighting hard battles.  And Jesus died out of love on a day just like today.  Life is vastly different from Christ’s time, and yet we continue to share so much in common.  I think a day like Good Friday calls us to our commonalities and reminds us that life is both fragile and strong, so let’s just be kind and patient and forgiving of one another… and love as best we can.
 
May the grey sadness of this day work what it needs to work within you.  Holiness often comes in quiet clouds to mend, to heal, and to green up the paths of hope.  Stand still and let the rain anoint and refresh your being.

When did that happen?  How did I miss that?  Just outside of my bedroom window the sun wakes the world up to green.  Just a few moments ago, my yard was grey-brown.  The starkness of winter was a friend I’d grown accustomed to… steady, calm, and peaceful.  But this morning, my eyes cannot believe the life pulse of green.  Spring has arrived, and our souls are being reawakened to a freshness we didn’t even realize we needed.
 
I have been aware of the lengthening light.  I have noticed the birds are singing loud and extraordinarily cheerful songs not heard a month ago.  I’ve put away my heavy, dark coat, and been craving yellow and pink short sleeved shirts.  But how did I miss the first blades of grass deciding to let go of what became old and juice up through their veins what is so life-giving?  I say this nearly every year.  It’s on my bucket list that one spring I will spend February through March journaling and photographing the greening of my grass.  I want to be able to say, “On March first, this blade grass was perfectly brown from the base up.  And on March 14th the base began to green.  And on March 19 the green was almost all the way to the top.  And on March 21 the entire blade of grass was free of brown!”
                      
And what might happen if we noticed our own souls in such a fashion?  What if we took a soul-pulse each day?  Is our soul grey, brown, or yellow?  Is our soul growing or stagnant?  Is our soul happy, tired, or restless?  Isn’t it true that the state of our world is dependent on the state of each soul?  One by one, we can brighten or demolish the atmosphere around us.  What nurtures us, what cares for our soul, and what our souls care about are worthy of our time and attention.
 
Let’s agree to focus on what matters the most.  Each person, of course, needs to figure out what that is for them (and it might not be charting the greening of grass!), but staying true to this course will only benefit humankind.  How can we each grow greener in our own souls to add color and life wherever we go?  What fills you up, makes you laugh, lifts your face toward the sun?  If you are so tired, so spent, so discouraged you don’t know, I’m guessing it’s time to take off your shoes and let your toes feel the grass.  Be well, my friends.  You, like the green grass, deserve to feel alive!

It’s not too often, but sometimes, the world frightens me.  Mostly, I allow my heart and spirit to dwell in the graciousness of beauty and wholeness and possibility.  I believe in a loving God, a God who believes in us as people with souls that are thirsty for goodness and compassion.  I turn my eyes towards the mountains created by this God as many times a day as I can, and I remember how there is strength available, and support, even when we think it has all been depleted.  I delight in quirky birdsongs and celebrate the small wonders that wait for us to find them.

But sometimes, the world frightens me, with obscure intentions meant for harm, mean-spiritedness, and tragic moments when full-of-life people die moments after their laughter filled the air.  I am burdened by how easily we achieve for things and lose sight of each other.  I don’t know what to do about the skewed, unhealthy perceptions of life espoused through television and media, and I am sad that we are too busy for that which begs our attention.

But today, as I sat at a stop light, I rested my eyes upon this scene, and I was comforted.  I don’t know if I can fully articulate how it moved me, but there was something in the weathered spirit of the old wooden walls, the tree waiting for spring, and the steadfastness of the mountains that said, “No matter what.  No matter how life plays out, there is something deeper and truer that will never falter or fail.  There is life beyond the life you recognize here and so much more than you can see that will always urge life forward.  Trust when you think you cannot.  Love when you would rather pull inward.  Show up to those in need.  And when you feel most frightened, breathe in the ancient air made fresh as winter becomes spring.”