He pitched the hymn with four clear notes, and this alive mass of people created harmonies and rocked and blessed each soul present. There was just voice upon voice and hearts united by words of peace and grace and love. No electric guitars or tambourines. No microphones on each lapel. Just… voices backed by spirit and the
human need to sing.
At the labyrinth, there was a dead tree. It seemed that all of the branches had been intentionally sawed away, and yet, the main trunk of the tree remained… dead all the same. Perhaps the intention is to come back another day and finish the job. Perhaps this stark tree remains for no purpose. But perhaps, the black charcoal lines against the clouding sky are there to pray the words we most yearn to say… are there to complete something left
unsaid.
The wind is sweeping across the mountains, stirring the wildlife towards their dens, and spinning the golden leaves in dances born only in the season of autumn. We, too, are being called to kindle fires that warm the body
and the soul. We feel the earth pulsing beneath our feet. We find moments of melancholy and homesickness in the lengthening days of darkness. And we are sequestered to our holy thoughts as winter begins to seep in and quiet our task-ladened lives.
The soup is warm. Someone calls your name, and in the smallest of moments, we are imbued with all that is Divine. Every need is met as the wind chimes call out to us, and as we lay our hands upon those of another. Night will come to rest us. Morning will come to arouse us. And everything in between will invite wholeness and meaning and love.
Cup the light as it flickers this night.
No need to fear.
No need to fear.
God is here.
God is near.
human need to sing.
At the labyrinth, there was a dead tree. It seemed that all of the branches had been intentionally sawed away, and yet, the main trunk of the tree remained… dead all the same. Perhaps the intention is to come back another day and finish the job. Perhaps this stark tree remains for no purpose. But perhaps, the black charcoal lines against the clouding sky are there to pray the words we most yearn to say… are there to complete something left
unsaid.
The wind is sweeping across the mountains, stirring the wildlife towards their dens, and spinning the golden leaves in dances born only in the season of autumn. We, too, are being called to kindle fires that warm the body
and the soul. We feel the earth pulsing beneath our feet. We find moments of melancholy and homesickness in the lengthening days of darkness. And we are sequestered to our holy thoughts as winter begins to seep in and quiet our task-ladened lives.
The soup is warm. Someone calls your name, and in the smallest of moments, we are imbued with all that is Divine. Every need is met as the wind chimes call out to us, and as we lay our hands upon those of another. Night will come to rest us. Morning will come to arouse us. And everything in between will invite wholeness and meaning and love.
Cup the light as it flickers this night.
No need to fear.
No need to fear.
God is here.
God is near.
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