For all these many years of revisiting the Christmas story, I’ve felt so badly that  humankind didn’t take better care of the Holy family. We imagine that it was cold and physically taxing for Mary, so full of baby, to ride a donkey for miles on end.  We imagine that Joseph wanted the best for his beloved, that he worried for her and the baby, and that he wished for every safeguard imaginable to be in place for the birth of this child.  And what happens? They end up in a stable! In a drafty, most likely stinky, barn for the lowly animals. Jesus, God’s sweet son, was born in a barn. I mean, come on folks! Couldn’t we do better than that?

This Christmas, however, I’ve been thinking about that stable almost daily.  It has come to me in a new light this year… one that has been comforting and inspiring. Along with the birth of Christ… perhaps where he was born was intended to be a gift to our hearts.  He wasn’t born upon satin sheets in a room scented with the finest perfume. Nor was he born where throngs of people waited outside of the doors to catch a first glimpse or report the first story. His parents did not have a fine team of labor and delivery nurses or champagne to celebrate his arrival.  Jesus was born in the quiet, soft light of a stable where the cows lowed as Mary pushed.  

I’ve been going to the stable, metaphorically, throughout this advent.  I put on my boots. I grab some oats, and with tea in hand, I go to this sacred space.  Deep within, this stable space is where I can grow quiet, sit with my Maker, and uncover more of who I am meant to be.  I return to the well-crafted center of my heart where all parts of me are welcomed. This stable is a place of sustenance and peace.  Like Mary’s stable, it is also a guardian of labor, pain, and tears. It bears witness to and shelter for the yearnings and the births.

Perhaps in Mary’s stable, the cows and horse’s warmth heated the space and their hay filled the air with sweetness.  Perhaps their presence was a comfort to Mary as she remembered how animals deliver their babies so instinctively. And perhaps Mary was thankful for the privacy of welcoming her Son with only her beloved Joseph by her side.

I think of the darkness of night and the warmth of a lantern’s glow as the Holy family first saw their baby’s face, and how they rested together in one another’s arms under the rustic beams of that small barn.  Couldn’t it be that this stable was a blessing to this family and an ongoing symbol to all of us that we are called to find our own stable spaces of simplicity and grace.

What we need is most often… close… in the simplest of means.  Snowfalls and morning fog to slow us down. Shelter to give us warmth.  Loved ones to bless our lives. And the peace of God that is always reaching out for us.  I hope this Christmas you find your way to the stable and that in the coming year it brings you closer to your own peace and joy, and the ongoing blessings of God’s tender love.  May you, too, follow the small, yet bright light of the guiding star through the fields of your own life, and arrive at the humble stable that waits to make you new.

​

​As I arrived for my hair appointment, I was told that my hairdresser was running a bit late.  She is a young mother of three little children, and I smiled with a prayer in mind for her as who knows what might have caused her delay.  Maybe all three just needed a few more Mama hugs!
 
As I waited, I watched another hairdresser cutting the hair of a young man.  His appearance was intriguing as he was covered with tattoos with one rather prominent one on his neck.  The haircut he was getting was mostly a shaved look but with a patch of longer hair left in the middle of his head.  He was eating something like bite-sized granola bars as she cut his hair, and I found that also interesting as I’ve never thought about eating as someone cut my hair.  I mean, who wants hair in your food?
 
The woman cutting his hair was so at ease in her work, and what really pulled me in was how at ease she was with this man.  She held the loveliest smile on her face the entire time she was working on his hair.  She was intent on cutting his hair to his exact wishes and carefully utilized both scissors and clippers.  After she got his hair just so, coming back two or three times to catch that stray hair, she got out her short handled shaving brush, tossed a bit of powder in it, and went over his head with this soft powder.  It was as if she were caressing a canvas with loving strokes.  Such gentleness and such comfort were present in this action.
 
Then she began to shave his face and neck.  His trust was so apparent.  They moved together as if they had shared this experience many times before… he titling his head just so… she moving the razor up or down to the angle of his neck.  She left his beard close, I suppose just as he liked it.  She then took that powder brush, and again stroked his face and neck almost as a blessing to soothe what may not be apparent.  Next she asked if he might like some after shave.  He did, of course.  Her hands folded together with the after shave inside, and then she lovingly applied it to his face and neck.  I thought that must be the final touch, but there was more.  She asked if he might like some kind of product in his hair, and again he was eager to accept.  She poured this also into her hands, and then with such grace, she rubbed his head and hair.  She was still smiling even as his eyes were closed.  There was a sacredness present, a true release in the comfort of human touch.
 
And finally, she held up a small blue bottle and asked again if he might like some of that applied to his head.  And once again, he easily agreed.  It seemed to be some sort of oil or ointment, and with such care she stroked it onto his head, and onto specific places that seemed small wounds I had not noticed until that moment.
 
Just a bit more powder, and then she invited him to look in the mirror and see what he thought.  It seemed he felt it was a job well done.  And then before I knew it, he was gone.  She began to clean up her area, and my hairdresser arrived and invited me to sit in the chair beside this lady’s station.  I felt compelled to speak to her.  I told her that her hands were truly beautiful, and that I was moved by how gently and compassionately she worked with that man.  She said that he lived his life with much anxiety, and that she liked to help relieve him of such for the time he was with her.  She said that sores on this head were there because of his struggles.  And then she picked up the blue bottle, and she said that she told him there that was something about the oil inside it that helped to soothe worries… that it helped people with their struggles.  And she massaged that message along with the oil into his head.  She then looked at me and said, “It’s just hair oil, but he believes it is something more… so maybe it is.”
 
“Love is but a song to sing
Fear's the way we die
You can make the mountains ring
Or make the angels cry
Though the bird is on the wing
And you may not know why
 
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now
 
Some may come and some may go
We shall surely pass
When the one that left us here
Returns for us at last
We are but a moment's sunlight
Fading in the grass
 
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now
 
If you hear the song I sing
You will understand (listen!)
You hold the key to love and fear
All in your trembling hand
Just one key unlocks them both
It's there at your command
 
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now.”

​Sometimes, our beings
need
to sit on the porch and
not allow the mind to argue about
the chill or dampness.
We need not make
excuses that
someone will see our
bed-head hair
or judge us
for wasting time
when there are other
things more important to do.
 
Sometimes, our beings
require
porch sitting
as much as we require
food and oxygen.
Sometimes,
the only way to come fully
alive
is to feel the forty degree
temperature on our skin
that coaxes us to run
back inside only long
enough to grab hat and scarf.
 
Sometimes, we must
hear, straight from the tree,
without barrier of window or wall,
the happiness in the
robin and wren songs.
 
Sometimes, we must step down
from the porch just long enough
to finger the dark soil that
blankets new growth.
With dirt under our nails,
we can better give thanks that earth
is our home no matter where we roam.
 
And as we breathe in the morning air,
as we rest in what is fully present
in us and around us,
we uncover the pureness of
what naturally heals.
 
And this is important as we live complex lives.
Like the seasons that hold both barren and full times,
our lives are ‘yes and’ lives.
Yes, we carry burdens and we can be released from them.
Yes, we are tired and rest will find us.
Yes, the world is falling apart and it is mending.
Yes, there is devastation and there is beauty.
Yes, our hearts break and they continue to love and be loved.
 
Sometimes, porch sitting
invites the complexity to grow quiet enough
that we find our way out of the fog
and hear the wind chimes soothing us
into the possibilities
of a new day. 

​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.