...for all the days that are

You are my shepherd, 
you meet needs I do not know.
You find peace for me in lovely places,
rest where waters refresh instead of threaten;
my spirit regains its wholeness in your care.
Because of who you are 
you help me walk the path.
When the trail cuts the valley, 
and shadows grow purple and deep,
your presence and your promise
keep my fear at bay;
your protection, even your teaching,
are a comfort in the dark.
You set a fellowship table in the open,
refusing to let me treat the other as enemy;
you set me aside for a special thing;
it is so much, I can't take it all in.
My God, your good grace and mercy 
will be my traveling companions 
all my life long;
and I will count your dwelling as my
place of abiding for all the days that are.
Psalm 23 (para. laca)

...overwhelmed, battered, bathed

My soul has found its low place,
lost to yesterday and yesterday,
so I labor to recall you from 
beautiful days, from times of 
close ease. I do remember you.
The deep places in me echo 
with the thunder of earth's  deep places;
I'm overwhelmed, battered, bathed
where the waters fall away.
By day, your steadfast love;
by night, your song;
my spirit returns to you.
---Psalm 42: 4-8 (para. laca)

I have found myself at my lowest when I have forgotten the track record of the One who walks with me. It is easy for us, I think, to get beaten down, or worn down, and forget to remember. And, once we get rusty at calling to remembrance, we lose our backward vision. We panic, and grope, and grasp for a handhold on this path, all the while feeling we must have been abandoned.

Then the thunder of yearning from the deep spaces of our souls is matched by the thunder of our filling; the provision, the meeting, and the cacophony batters us, cleanses us, restores us. We know the hesed, the steadfast love, that both nourishes and challenges us, by day. And by night, when darkness tugs at the edges of our awareness and threatens our tenuous, newly-reclaimed security, we hear faint strains of a song, the middle-of-the-night song that calms and soothes us back to sleep, safe in the arms of the One who loves us.

...to turn on the light

Do not, Mystery and Mercy, keep from me
what you alone can grant;
wrap me in the safety of your
strong and steady love,
let me feel the 'yes' of your faithfulness.
For the darkness of the world 
tangles around me,
enmeshed with my own 
inner shadow spaces,
until vision is a memory,
or a dream;
the shadows innumerable, 
my weakness takes my breath away.
You would delight to see me
delivered, relieved of
threats from the world,
and of my own weaving.
---Psalm 40:11-13 (para. laca)

It is so easy for me to get 'wrapped up', entangled, knotted, in the bad things happening out there. World things that happen because we are part of this world. Stuff that goes down in this broken world. Things people do that they have no business doing. Some of those things, they do to me. I know, right? And it makes me want to cry out, "God help us!" And sometimes I do. And once in a while I get a little more selfish, and I want to cry, "God help me!" 

And sometimes I do.

And God, Mystery and Mercy, says "Here I am." Which isn't always as satisfying as, "I hereby slap the baddies with tough karma and the flu!" But, then, God is God, and maybe plays the game a few moves ahead of us.

And there is this other thing. With all the darkness in the world, we sometimes can't let well enough alone. We go around creating more, and hiding it away in the nooks and crannies of our own souls. Friends, those shadowy places inside of us? They are at least as dangerous and threatening as the darkness the world tries to wrap around us. They push against us from the inside, sending out tangles of pain and hurt that interweave with the hurt and pain winding around us from the outside, and we are caught in the middle, left breathless and helpless, bound by the shadows. We can't even remember what it was to see clearly, or picture what it might be like to see again.

But the story doesn't end there. The great mystery and mercy is that, in the moment of our night-blindness, when we are bound by darkness falling on us and coming from us, there is One who is pleased to cut us loose, and turn on the light.

Praise be.

...just in time

You satisfy both my hunger and my thirst,
I've cast my lot with you.
Looking back, I see my path
gently leading me just so.
Bless you, who inspire me 
from the soul of my knowing.
With you clear in my view,
no one will move me.
Deep gladness fills me, 
joy seeps from my pores;
even my body finds peace, sure peace.
---Psalm 16:5-9 (para. laca)

People are so disillusioned with...everything today. Is there anything that does not disappoint? Products, 'miracle' or otherwise, don't work as advertised. Movies, games, books, TV series are boring, formulaic, derivative. Food is fattening, or tasteless, tainted, genetically-modified (or not), or produced without benefit of fair-trade scrutiny. Modern medicine doesn't cure all of our aches and pains, and hasn't found answers for some of the killing questions of our human race; vaccines save countless lives, yet are blamed for gaps in prediction from year to year. Relationships fail to anticipate every need, for closeness, space, bonding, independence, validation. Is it any wonder we are disappointed people?

There is always the chance, though, that we are looking for the wrong things, in the wrong places. When I come to this clearing in the pathway, I can't help but see that I've been led to this place, shepherded away from danger and guided toward treasure to discover. There have been tears, there have. But here in this clearing there is gladness, for this moment. And now, face upturned, there is joy starting somewhere deep. Here in this clearing on my path, for now, there is relief and peace for my body, the house of my spirit.

I have been gently led here, just in time for this moment. And I can't help but believe there is more to come. Thank You.

...you have dreamed my future

You, you my solid center and my shelter,
because of your nature
lead me, urge me on.
I am entangled;
be my rescue and my refuge.
My spirit flies to your safekeeping;
you have dreamed my future,
Ever-Presence.
---Psalm 31:3-5 (para. laca)

There is a kind of parent I dream of being. It's the fierce mother bear when I need to be, hackles up when there is no doubt about the danger around. It's the sage teacher, asking the right questions at the right times. The cheerleader on the sidelines, my kids' biggest fan. The safe place to fall, when life does what life does. And most of all, I'd like to be the parent that dreams my child's future. I'd like to look into her newborn eyes, his infant face, and see past the hurt and disappointment sure to line life's pathway; and I'd like to dream a future that redeems all of that for them, a future that makes costly sense of the suffering that might come. I'd like to be the parent who could plant that dream of the future in my child, to instill in her the knowledge that she is valued, that he is bought and paid for.

Because knowing you are redeemed? That kind of dream sets you free.

...till mercy showers down

To you my gaze is lifted,
you sitting among the stars!
As a servant looks to his master,
as a maid looks to her lady,
my eyes search yours,
until mercy showers down.
Mercy, my Own, mercy,
for more contempt is 
more than I can bear.
---Psalm 123:1-3 (para. laca)

There is something about meanness and people. Okay. Not all people, but lots of us. Me. I'm guilty sometimes. Maybe you? I'm mean. Now sometimes it's when I feel I've been backed into a corner, and I am in counterattack mode. And sometimes I'm just mean in my head, and the rest of the world never hears a word of it (ok, straight up, this is where I'm the meanest). Rarely, the mean spills out and burns someone else --- either the target of my mean, or an unlucky innocent bystander. This is not a side of myself that makes me proud, even when it is couched in the dubious humour of sarcasm. And I think mean is epidemic in our culture right now. If it were medical, we'd be marching on Washington for a cure, wearing color-of-the-day ribbons, having thing-a-thons to stamp it out forever. But, since all we have to do to stop it is to, well, stop it, the culture of mean continues to lurk around every corner, waiting to pounce.

In this world rife with contempt, communion with the Author of mercy is precious. My God, can you imagine what mercy would be worth to someone beat down by contempt? Maybe everything? And haven't we all, every one of us, had our fill of contempt? Find your wild place, and sit, and wait...till mercy showers down.

...to make holy

When through the deep waters I call thee to go,

The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow;

For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,

And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.

---K

There are lots of ways to look at the rough patches and tragedies in our lives. Some folk choose to look at everything that happens as God’s distinct will, some look at bad stuff as karma or payback. I see the bad things that happen as part of the price of being truly human in this world. For me, this resonates with my observations, with history, with my own life experience, and with my belief in a loving God.

In today’s hymn, with its text from the 18^th century, the hymnist speaks from the viewpoint of a strong, caring God to a searching believer. We will be called, no choice about it, through our life experiences, to journey through deep waters; but we will not go alone. God goes with us through our troubles and distress, to bless and even to make holy those experiences that try us the most. To me this says that God can bring some worth out of even the most tragic, worthless, hurtful situation.

What a hopeful thought from a loving God!

...here I linger

Open my eyes to your ways,
set my feet on the paths you clear.
Beckon me with truth, help me learn,
for you are my saving Way:
here I linger until you lead.
---Psalm 25:4-5 (para. laca)

Linger. Stay. Abide. Wait. How hard is this for you? How long are you willing to wait? How long before you begin to fidget, doodle, fuss, daydream, grumble, toe-tap, throat-clear, or whine? Does it depend on what you are waiting for? How special does it have to be for you to wait patiently? What if you are not sure at all what you are awaiting? What if you are waiting for something you hope for, that you pray you will recognize when it happens?

As we wait in this holy season, how do we sit in our uncertainty? Do we wait in expectation? Trepidation? Do we wait hungering and thirsting to be filled? Searching for a true north? Dare we wait in a silent void, with no voices, no flashing arrows, no yellow brick road? Shall we wait 40 days, while other voices whisper to us from other hills, while the yellow eyes of desert creatures shine unblinking in the night?

Here I linger, until you lead...

...held close in her mother's embrace

Name, my heart is not racing, 
my gaze doesn't search the stars;
my mind doesn't dwell on 
what will always elude me.
Instead, my soul is silent and still, 
content as a weaned child held close 
in her mother's embrace.
---Psalm 131:1-2 (para. laca)

When I nursed my babies, there was a closeness between us, a symbiosis, that is like nothing I have ever shared with any other person. These tiny beings grew in me for months, dependent on my body for every bit of life. Then, the sudden violence of separation. From the warmth and closeness of the womb, shadowy and quiet, to the cold and glare of real life. From that moment of birth, of separation, when somehow one being becomes two people, the search begins. The unquenchable thirst --- for nourishment, yes, but for more. When a babe snuggled into me, it was also in search of that warm, dark place that had been home for so long. Every nerve, every sinew was laser-focused on latching on and settling in, drinking urgently, as if life depended on it. Because life depended on it.

And there were times when I was weary of it. The inconvenience of entertaining a toddler while nursing a baby, all balanced on a toilet in a dirty bathroom stall at McDonald's. The messiness of nursing. The on-call-ness of it. The soreness of it. The way brushing my baby's cheek could set off the craned neck of a Pavlovian response, feeding time or no. The Pavlovian response of my body to the sound of my own baby's cries. There's a weariness about it, no doubt.

But in a little while, or a lot, you and your baby find, together, that the time has come for moving on, to a sippy cup with a whale on it, or a cow, or to a bowl of strained peaches or rice cereal. Nursing, when it happens, loses the frantic searching quality of early infancy, and it is time. Your babe is not a babe, but a child, weaned.

And your child still comes to you in the shadows, nestles into you, head tucked into the space under your chin. You still wrap your arms around your child, you breathe together, you rock back and forth. There is no more frantic striving, none of the urgent needing of infancy. In its place, there is stillness. There is silence. There is contentment.

...into the wild places

And he was blown by the Spirit into the wild places. 
He was there for 40 days, long enough to know, 
tempted by what would have distracted Him from finding.
And the creatures there were wild things,
and angels were close by.
---Mark 1:12-13 (LACA)

This (very loose) poetic paraphrase of Mark's story of Jesus' temptation in the wilderness relates an episode from Jesus' life that has always fascinated me. Jesus, fully human, fully God. Both at once. The fully God part is, for my mind, much too vast to ever adequately unpack. The fully human aspect of Jesus' nature means, to me, that Jesus learned and grew, much as we ourselves do. So I wonder if, as the Holy Spirit compelled him into the desert following his baptism in the Jordan by cousin John, he thought to himself, How bizarre. What? What is it you want from me, Spirit? What shall I do? Who do I ask? How will I know? Am I enough?

Am I enough? Who of us hasn't been blown into our own wild places, forced to face the great silence, and wait with the wild things? Who of us hasn't counted off the days, 10, 15, 30, until the days were enough --- enough --- enough? Felt the rhythm of enough-ness in 40? Hasn't felt tempted by the glittery, shimmering thats lurking just off our path of finding?

Don't fear the 40 days. There is One gone before us into the wild places. And there are angels close by.

...fully known, fully loved, at home

There are depths of love that I cannot know till I cross the narrow sea;

There are heights of joy that I may not reach till I rest in peace with Thee.

Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord, to the cross where Thou hast died;

Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord, to Thy precious bleeding side.

---Fanny J. Crosby, 1875

There are lots of sayings, maxims, proverbs, and mottos around the concept of ‘home’. Many of them are cross-stitched on pillows, and the rest are internet memes. I’ll admit, I have my favorites. From the musical The Wiz, “When I think of home, I think of the place where there’s love overflowing.” And another of my favorites goes something like, “Home. Where the people who know you best still let you in at the end of every day.” There is just something about being home, of being fully known and fully loved, just because you are.

I think hymnist great Fanny J. Crosby may have been thinking of home when she penned this verse nearly 150 years ago. Here in this life we get glimpses and glimmers of love and of joy. We know communion with God, and fellowship with others. We find purpose and fulfillment in pouring out our lives in service for a needy world. But there is a knowing, an immersion, that may only fully happen when we leave this part of life behind, when the things that bind us to this world let us go.

Or, as St. Paul said, “Now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.”

Home. Draw me nearer, Lord, to Your side.

...borne safe

When ends life’s transient dream,

When death’s cold, sullen stream shall o’er me roll,

Blest Savior, then, in love,

Fear and distrust remove;

O bear me safe above, a ransomed soul.

---Ray Palmer, 1830

There are some days inspiration flows easily. There are others when I sit and stare at the screen (or the composition book page if I’m rocking it old school) and it stares back at me. Then there are days when the text bounces back to me, twisted fantastically, as if by a funhouse mirror, distortions and warps making it hard to grasp meaning.

Guess which afternoon it’s been? This verse from the beloved mid-19^th century hymn pulled me toward it, then reflected back at me: “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream; merrily, merrily merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” Yep. Talk about a brain freeze.

So, I scrolled down on my page, past those first two lines of the verse (out of sight, sort of out of mind). And got to something I could hold onto, something that would hold onto me. In love Jesus, in the midst of our fear, ransoms our souls. In love the Savior, our distrust notwithstanding, bears us safe through the transient dream of this life.

Let me be wholly Yours.

...not the end

Lean on me when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on;
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on.
---Bill Withers

You may have been following the viral saga in the Humans of New York photo series of Vidal, Principal Lopez, and their school in Brownsville, Brooklyn, the Mott Hall Bridges Academy. 13-year-old Vidal mentioned the influence on his life of Principal Lopez, who had elevated this school and its students to a place of pride and achievement in its neighborhood. As often happens with photo subjects in this series, Lopez was then located and interviewed as a subject herself, and it soon became clear that the story was more complex than your average feel-good 'education saved me' story.

Because Principal Lopez shared that, when contacted by HONY staff about Vidal's comments, she had been composing her resignation letter. She was tired, depleted, beaten down and worn out by the demands and expectations of having to accomplish too much with too little, day after too long day. "I was broken," she said. Broken. Not incompetent. Not uncaring. Not even burned-out, really. Broken. And then. And then, Vidal. Vidal, sharing how a principal had changed his life by changing his school culture. Because a HONY photographer asked the right question of the right random person walking down the right random street. And then. And then, the responses. Likes, hundreds of thousands of them. Positive comments. Scholarship offers for the local school, from all over the place.

 Principal Lopez' resignation letter was not delivered. The Academy is reenergized.

In carpentry, beams often become weak or broken in places or ways that preclude their being removed or replaced; they cannot function adequately, but cannot be replaced with new wood. In such cases, a new beam is placed alongside the weak or broken beam, strengthening it for continued service. In the field, this practice is called sistering. In carpentry, a useful practice. In life, none of us can do without it.

Because, sisters and brothers, we're all broken. But brokenness is not. the end. of the story.