Hope's Feathers

Emily Dickinson

When I hear the word "hope," my mind flits immediately to the wee poem by Emily Dickinson. When I first became ill with my now chronic conditions, my daughter copied the poem and illustrated it as a birthday gift, and it hangs on the wall in my prayer corner where I reread it often while I meditate and pray.

The poem is the frame in the upper right....

The poem defines the concept of hope with simple but profound imagery--the hallmark of Dickinson's genius:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

This image of hope, a shy bird perching in my soul, is encouraging. As the last stanza remarks, hope asks nothing of us, but, as the center stanza illustrates, it sings its sweetest in the midst of powerful storms that can rock us to our very hearts' cores, soul-deep, but still is heard despite circumstance, distance, loneliness, and unfamiliar surroundings.

And, as the first stanza asserts, hope "never stops at all." Hope "never stops at all." How emphatic Dickinson phrases this last line of the first stanza! Hope stops never, at all? One of these emphatic words would have been sufficient to express hope's persistence, but both? How reassuring!

As Saint Paul wrote in his epistle to the Church in Rome:

"For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience" (Romans 8:24-25, ESV).

So we wait, being watchful and thankful, for our hope to be realized. And where is our hope placed? In Him who walked this earth incarnate, wafting hope in His midst wherever He spoke, taught, healed, advised, prayed, praised, transfigured...suffered, died, and rose again.

Our hope can only be in the One who lived hope for us, and in whose hope we walk, each and every day, whether we recognize him as Christ our Lord or not.

So let us hope together, for faith, hope, and love are braided together, intertwined with knots of grace. And, of course, "the greatest of these is Love."

With love for the One who first loved us, who brings us His hope,

Praying by the Book

Some Christians either look down upon or simply don't understand why other Christians find value in praying from a prayer book. Whether that book is a Book of Common Prayer from the 1540's or Baillie's classic Diary of Private Prayer from the 1940's or Stormie O'Martian's more recent Power of a Praying Wife, etc., praying from a book, or "by the book" can express the soul-language of our hearts.

I had never prayed from any book, except the Scriptures of course, until about ten years ago. Yes, I started with Stormie O'Martian's books which have been accepted almost without question in evangelical circles, but then online friends encouraged me to try Baillie's slim volume of prayers.

And I fell in love with praying all over again.

Obviously, there's nothing wrong with extemporaneous praying--it's what we do all the time. And praying "by the book" should never totally replace praying on our own--Baillie even writes in his book that "These prayers are to be regarded as aids; they are not intended to form the whole of morning's or evening's devotions or to take the place of more individual prayers for oneself and others."

But adding such written prayers to our prayer times has totally revolutionized my own prayer life.

For me, written prayers often express my heart more thoroughly and deeply than I can in extemporaneous prayer. I find this especially true in using the Book of Common Prayer and Baillie's Diary of Private Prayer. Baillie's little book presents page-long prayers for Morning and Evening for thirty-one days, plus Morning and Evening prayers for Sundays; thus, each prayer is prayed once per month. The prayers become familiar over the years (and I've been using Baillie's book off and on for well over a decade), but for me, they are never rote. Nope, never ever rote.

Instead, they become beautiful expressions of the love and faith in my heart, expressed far better and with a more global outlook than my own private prayers.

One of my favorite prayers is the Twelfth Day, Evening:

O Thou in whose boundless being are laid up all treasures of wisdom and truth and holiness, grant that through constant fellowship with Thee the true graces of Christian character may more and more take shape within my soul:
The grace of a thankful and uncomplaining heart:
The grace to await Thy leisure patiently and to answer Thy call promptly:
The grace of courage, whether in suffering or in danger:
The grace to endure hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ:
The grace of boldness in standing for what is right:
The grace of preparedness, lest I enter into temptation:
The grace of bodily discipline:
The grace of strict truthfulness:
The grace to treat others as I would have others treat me:
The grace of charity, that I may refrain from hasty judgement:
The grace of silence, that I may refrain from hasty speech:
The grace of forgiveness towards all who have wronged me:
The grace of tenderness towards all who are weaker than myself:
The grace of steadfastness in continuing to desire that Thou wilt do as now I pray.
And now, O God, give me a quiet mind, as I lie down to rest. Dwell in my thoughts until sleep overtake me. Let me rejoice in the knowledge that, whether awake or asleep, I am still with Thee. Let me not be fretted by any anxiety over the lesser interests of life. Let no troubled dreams disturb me, so that I may awake refreshed and ready for the tasks of another day. And to Thy Name be all the glory. Amen.

So I pray, with words not wholly mine, but with a heart that, I pray, is wholly His.

And I find great comfort in praying in this way, especially when the exhaustion and brain-fog and pain of my illness makes praying extemporaneously a challenge.

For me, my private prayers were becoming rote. I felt as though I were praying the same things each day, almost as if I were ticking off a grocery list of requests. So the prayers I pray from books have been more heart-felt than my private, extemporaneous prayers.

I think that God doesn't look at our words in prayer so much as at the heart attitude behind the prayer.

"For the LORD sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance,(B) but the LORD looks on the heart." --1 Samuel 16:7, ESV

With God, it's always the heart that counts.

Praying by the book with heart,

Walking Humbly with Our God

Keith has promised to make me one of these "personal kneelers"--called a prie-dieu, which means "before God."

Because, for me, it's all in the position.

I pray best on my knees.

It isn't comfortable for long prayer sessions, granted--especially for me whose knees give way at the best of times. But there's just something about kneeling that sets my heart in the right place for prayer.

When Father Acker was Rector of Christ the King in Alpine, my favorite part of Friday morning worship was the kneelers. Oh, I loved the beautiful stained glass windows, the majestic altar, the scent of beeswax candles, the fragrant fog of incense, the simple white adobe walls hung with icons beautiful. But for me, it was all about the kneeling.

It's akin to taking off shoes on hallowed ground. Kneeling is about prayers holy--set apart--beyond the ordinary.

It's not about groveling. Not when He bids us to "come boldly before the throne of grace." No, there's no groveling in prayer. Humility is not groveling.

But in prayer there's mercy and grace, love and confidence, and when we bend the knee, we worship Him with body as well as with mind, heart, and soul.

Kneeling for me means worshiping God with all that I am, recognizing the glimpses I see of all that He is--He who is the great I AM. He is God ever-present, ever-ready, ever-willing to hear and love and answer and advise and comfort.

Kneeling reminds me of who I am--creation--bowing before who He is--Creator.

So how can I not kneel?

I am reminded of the sung words to Micah 6:8:

"He has shown you, O man, what is good, and what the Lord requires of you: but to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God."

I am also reminded of one of my favorite Collects in the new Book of Common Prayer 2011:

For Confidence [Note:In Latin, con=with; fide=faith, so confidence means "with faith"; I love that!!]

O GOD of peace, you have taught us that in returning and in rest we shall be saved, and in quietness and in trust we shall be strengthened; By the power of your Spirit, we ask you to bring us into your presence where we may be still and know that you are God; Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

And of course, I am further reminded of my favorite line from my favorite Christmas carol, "O Holy Night":

"Fall on your knees;
O hear the angel voices!"

So as we walk humbly and with confidence before our God, He reveals glimpses of His glory to us--and how can we not respond by falling to our knees in humble worship before Him?


Kneeling before the King this day,

On the Road to Calvary



Image from freerepublic.com

As we enter the third week of Lent, I find myself plodding a bit. Tired. My eyes feel gritty, as if dust has descended, drying them. It isn't comfortable, but it's not painful, either.

It's Lenten.

The Lenten disciplines God directed me to this wintry spring are difficult, yet with Him all things are possible, and I continue on, allowing His discipline to shape my heart, permitting Him to carve away my excesses.

I fail, though. I sometimes forget Vespers so combine it with Compline at bedtime, and a few days have seen Morning Prayer fade into Midday, but His Word lightens the burden, enlightens the path.

So I ask forgiveness, and His grace envelopes.

And I trod on.

Today I read an incredible post about something dear to my heart--written by the wonderful Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience (my favorite blog). She shared about the process of making Easter as meaningful in our lives as Christmas.

That's a convicting thought, isn't it?

If we invest all this effort, time, money into Christmas, celebrating the Incarnation, how can we not do at least the same, if not more, to celebrate the Resurrection?

Ann writes:

And Advent completes at Lent.

When Christ completes what He came to do.

She continues:

We call it the “spirit of Christmas,” the spirit of giving, and we try to contain it to holly and poinsettias, when it is holy and it is more. The spirit of Christmas is the spirit of Easter, the Love that so loved the world, that He gave.

And the words that stings heart and motivates soul:

The Incarnation of Christ was meant for the Crucifixion of Christ and we never incarnate Christ until we abdicate self.

And "abdicat[ing] self" is the whole meaning behind the practice of Lent.

And I think it's perhaps why Lent feels so precious to me. For in the abdication of self, we may gain the merest glimpse of His glory--the swirl of His cloak, His whisper in the wind, His hand on our shoulder as He nudges us onward in His holiness.

And thus Lent is one way to join Christ on His journey to Calvary. It's a gift, really--to become one of the weeping women of His beloved city, the city He wept over, clad in dusty garments and worn sandals, the women of Jerusalem whom He took the time to greet and to warn despite searing pain and the weight of the world on His shoulders--beaten raw, seeping blood.

"Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children. For behold, the days are coming...." (Luke 23:28-29, ESV)

Lent allows us to join Jesus on the Road to Calvary, sharing a minuscule bit of His pain as we follow in His footsteps, only imagining what He willingly bore for us--the agony, the betrayals, the sin of past, present, and future generations--of all humanity. Even the mere visualization stabs my heart...much less the real experience of Christ's obedient suffering.

During this Lent, may we walk with Him as He stumbles forward, humanly-weak but divinely-strong, as "he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross" (Philippians 2:8, ESV).

And may we be so obedient in our Lenten disciplines, empowered by Christ and not ourselves as He molds us into His image, cutting away the sinful dross that accumulates in our lives all-too-easily.

Stumbling ever onward in His sacred footfalls,

Wearing the Habit

Mission San Luis Rey de Francia, Oceanside, CA

Habit of a Mission Padre, Founder's Room of Mission Museum

I've been pondering the concept of habits lately, especially after our field trip to the Mission San Luis Rey de Francia on Friday where we viewed the wool habit above, worn in the California desert heat, and as I help our youngest to write his required Mission Report for his California History class at our co-op.

With the arrival of the new year, many of us weigh the habits of our lives and attempt to rid ourselves of poor and/or unhealthy habits and add new, healthy habits to take their place. Some of our new habits may last a few weeks, perhaps a few months, into the new year; others, we pray, will become lifetime habits, habits that we wear always.

The wise Ann Voskamp at A Holy Experience posted an incredibly thought-provoking challenge today. I encourage you to read it and ponder it in your hearts today, if you haven't seen it already: The Habits That Make All Others Possible.

I have joined Ann in memorizing Colossians this year. Scripture memorizing is definitely not a strength of mine. My poor brain, dazed and hazy with the pain medications I take each day in order to function, is incredibly sieve-like: words especially slip through my grasp, and I grope through the recesses of my mind, trying to find a certain word or phrase in the dark, stumbling and stuttering over the wrong ones often. Too often. It's embarrassing.

In my own lacking brain power, I know full well that I cannot possibly memorize this short book of Scripture in a year. So, I trust and I pray, whispering under my breath the promise from Philippians, "I can all things through Christ who strengthens me." He can help to etch His Word into my beleaguered brain, even my poor brain with synapses misfiring, balance awry, and limbs refusing their usual functions.

So this morning as I picked up stray items before starting our home school day, I clutched my little Week One card, printed on thin copy paper (yes, I'm starting a week late and hope to do Weeks One and Two this week) and tried to absorb Word into brain:

Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, and Timothy our brother,
To God's holy people in Colossae, the faithful brothers and sisters in Christ: Grace and peace to you from God our Father.

And I felt His Word beginning to settle into brain cells as He makes Himself at home here...in my mind. And in my heart. And in my soul....

Perhaps this habit, which Ann refers to as a "one-piece life," will nestle in and inhabit me. I pray it does. (And if you haven't followed this link, do so--I nearly wept with the profundity and truth it reveals....)

I want to be a seer of the Holy in my life, not be a mere picker and eater of blackberries. (If this makes no sense, then you have to read Ann's blog post today to understand.) I desire to worship Christ in the simple, every day occurrences.

And sometimes the best way to see the sacred in the mundane is through the lens of a camera, hence my other habit for this year: a return to The 365 Project, blogging a photo a day with other kindred spirits.

Today I jotted three quotations from Ann's post into my Quotation Journal, filled with nearly a decade of collected gems of thought. But the one that sent chills spilling down my neck and caused breath to catch and holiness to glimmer is this quotation from one of my favorite Christian writers:

"Our sanctification does not depend as much on changing our activities as it does on doing them for God rather than for ourselves."
--Brother Lawrence

In a way, this quote brings me back to the Collect for this week from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer, one that I copied onto a 3x5 card and taped to my desk lamp Sunday evening after reading Father Acker's sermon:

"...Grant that we may both perceive and know what things we ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to fulfill the same...."

As Ann so often reminds us, there is no sacred and secular: there is only the sacred, if we perceive and know it as such. Everything calls us to worship: phoning a friend, sending an e-mail, feeding the dog, holding a child, hauling in firewood, calling kids in to dinner, plumping a pillow.

All is holy if we but slow down, ponder, and perceive it as such.

And that's a habit I pray to develop further this coming year as well.

Wearing the habit alongside you,

Memorizing Colossians in One Year

I have long read and discussed Ann Voskamp's wonderful blog A Holy Experience here. Ann challenges me, inspires me, and causes me to slow, to think deep, to grow wise. She feels like an "in-real-life" friend rather than someone who lives thousands of miles away in another country.

I think I feel so close to Ann because a) She homeschools a bundle of kids; b) She writes beautifully and her posts always resound with my poetry-lovin' heart; c) We are sisters in Christ, part of the boundless family of God, truly sisters-of-the-heart, and d) Although she's younger than I am in years, I look up to her as a "big sister" in wisdom; she teaches, provokes, listens, ponders, and rips away the folds under which I vainly attempt to hide my true self.

If she's brave enough to confess her shortcomings, brave enough to show us how she fails at times, brave enough to pick up the broken pieces and give them over to the One Who Heals Us, then I can be brave, too. Her blog beckons me, calls to me each day--helping me to become a more devoted follower of Christ, a more loving wife and mother, a more transparent woman who can lower her defenses and let others into her inner sanctum on occasion.

So today's post presents us with a challenge to memorize the Book of Colossians over the year of 2011. I love it! My kids aren't so sure that they can do it, but I think we will try as part of our family devotions at the opening of our home schooling day. Paul's Epistle to the Colossians is one of my favorite books in the Bible, and although memorizing isn't a strong point of mine, I am willing to give it a try.

And you can, too. Here's the link to Ann's materials: A Holy Experience: Memorizing Colossians in One Year. And here's a link to some details and updates for the project: A Holy Experience: Details and Updates for Memorizing Colossians.

I hope that some of you will join me and the many others who want to memorize this beautiful and wondrous Book of Scripture this year. I may not memorize the whole thing, but I will at least become all the more familiar with Colossians through this weak and flailing attempt.

Learning with you each day,

Giving and Receiving

As I respond to the idea of Giving at Christmas over at Ann Voskamp's A Holy Experience, I find myself humbled by her family's practice of Christmas and humbled by our own circumstances as well.

You see, we were (and still are) a family of givers. Keith used to take a family in reduced circumstances to Costco every couple of weeks to purchase groceries and other necessities. He's served many widows and single women by doing handyman work as needed and not accepting money. We've slipped generous gift cards into the Christmas cards of missionary families. And we never really thought about it--we did it with joy. I wrote out checks at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas to the local homeless shelter.

And, I confess, we did it (or at least I did it) with a little pride.

I was happy to share God's blessings with others. But I was also a little proud that we had enough to share.

I didn't realize the pride that had winnowed its way into my heart...until our circumstances changed.

Three years ago our finances altered drastically. Keith had always worked in the same office with his dad, a civil engineer. Designing and drafting custom homes has been his work for 25 years, and he is gooooood at it. Excellent at it. Recommendations over the years spread by word of mouth, and there was always work to do, sometimes so much that Keith had to turn smaller job away.

But when the recession hit, the housing market was rocked to its core, and it rocked us with it.

Suddenly we were adrift with no income. Keith has patched together a handyman business which waxes and wanes over the months, but it's been hard. Money has been tight...so very tight.

My medical bills over the past years were astronomical. We had managed to keep paying the balances, but when the recession hit, we were stuck with no way to pay for $1000 a month for medications plus other medical-related bills. We made arrangements with creditors and with his dad's help, we paid almost all of them off.

There were (and sometimes still are) weeks when we couldn't buy groceries and when the electric bill rolls into the next month. We stopped purchasing propane and now heat our home with free wood that Keith finds on Craig's List and hauls up the mountain.

But the hardest part was accepting the blessings of others.

It's a humbling thing to receive help. It's undoubtedly a blessing--a HUGE blessing--to receive a gift card to Albertson's for groceries, to WalMart for clothes for the kids. And I've always been thankful...so thankful. Those gift cards always arrived at just the right time, so perfectly at the right time that I saw the hand of God in it: the week we had no money for groceries was the week I won the monthly Trader Joe's drawing for bringing in my own bags. The $25 gift card award allowed me to buy the special gluten-free breads and pastas our kids needed. Another week when we had no meat in the freezer, a neighbor gave us a round roast that she "didn't want"--which I'm sure she purchased for us. We saved the turkey from the Thanksgiving Box given by our church "for a rainy day" and ate like kings even though the rest of the pantry was nearly bare.

But underneath the thankfulness and the joy of provision, the happiness in seeing our kids fed, lies that nearly-invisible streak of pride. The wish that we could help people, too. The wish that our circumstances were different and we could be the givers rather than the receivers. The "zing" of pride that darkens the joy just a little--not much--but it's there. I can feel it.

I hear the proverb again and again: "It's more blessed to give than receive." It's true. So true. Sometimes it's hard to receive. It's difficult to smile and say "thank you" at times.

So I confess it here to you. I am proud. But I am not so proud as to refuse what the Lord gives us through His people. Our circumstances have alerted me to much sin in my life, and among those previously-hidden sins is the sin of pride, the sin of wanting to be able to "do it on my own." It's not the sin of covetousness...YET. But it could grow that way if not curbed now.

I pray from the Confessions of the 1928 Book of Common Prayer:

ALMIGHTY and most merciful Father; We have erred, and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. We have offended against thy holy laws. We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; And we have done those things which we ought not to have done; And there is no health in us. But thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us, miserable offenders. Spare thou those, O God, who confess their faults. Restore thou those who are penitent; According to thy promises declared unto mankind In Christ Jesus our Lord. And grant, O most merciful Father, for his sake; That we may hereafter live a godly, righteous, and sober life, To the glory of thy holy Name. Amen.

Good Lord, forgive me.

I ask for God's grace to receive without pride. I ask for His grace to give without stinting, without letting one hand know what the other is doing. I ask...to be more Him, in both giving and especially, especially in receiving.

In His grace,

Combining Forces: WWHW and PAD

This day I ponder Ann Voskamp's Walk with Him Wednesday theme of Scripture memory and Robert Lee Brewer's November PAD Poetry Chapbook Challenge on writing a location poem and see where the two could converge. I decide to go forth with both in one work and refuse to be tentative. I push forward. Almost as if I'm being brave. Hard work, that. Not my natural bent. But then, neither is posting rough drafts of my work in public.

this morning's Word
from the eastern window
swallowed by late roses,
morning light shifts solemn
across my shoulderblades.
seeking balance, pen poises on pages
staining faintly the pure
blue-lined white with darkness,
the Word refuting each black-tipped shadow.

this Truth sears memory--scarring,
branding its words and phrases into
my head so swashbuckled by heart.
moments of significant pause insist
quite intrusively, almost rudely, that
knowledge must not masquerade as understanding.
May this Word speared to the page
overrun me with His slightest tip.

Copyright 2010 by Susanne Barrett

Wishing you all the peace of Word Understood and made yours,

Written on Our Hearts

He prides himself on his penmanship.

Pencil in hand, the youngest one, the littlest one, wriggles into his place. He wrote out his full first name, all eight letters, before he was three, before he was talking well. He whizzed through two handwriting books a year, often completing a week's lessons in a single day. He was writing cursive in first grade.

His writing is as neat as mine, albeit larger.

Each day he pulls out copybook and neatly writes what we are memorizing for the week. As I mentioned on Monday, this week we're learning 1 Thessalonians 5:15-18:

See that no one repays anyone evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to everyone. Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. -- English Standard Version

Then he pulls out his penmanship book, a series I love, that all four children have used: A Reason for Handwriting. Over the course of a week, he practices part of a Scripture verse, finally copying it out onto a beautiful illustrated page that he can then give to family or friends.

Not his best work, but the best one not given away to family or friends

Each week he copies Words, squirreling them into his heart as pencil glides across page.

This is how I memorize The Word, too.

I copy His Word into journals...into my quotation journal, into my prayer journal. I consume Scripture as I copy onto page, dipping brass nib into ink bottle--an action that slows me, allowing Word to nestle in, make itself at home in my deep places.

When one copies Word to paper, letters formed one after another, thoughts pinned to page, heart-work drilling deep where memories birth and mature, the Word is ready to be drawn out into light at our every need.

And we need it. We need Him. We need His Word whispered into our hearts, into the depths of our souls...written there by His very Hand. And when His Word is anchored in memory, it easily rises to the surface where we can chew on it, savoring His Truth in our inmost places.

Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path. (Psalm 119:105, ESV)

Writing His Word on my heart this day,

The Word Made Real

The book splays open, and births Life...Life beyond that of this pain-flayed body, beyond this mortal coil. The words within whisper Truth to each soul while the translation from ancient tongues remains archaic, the work of Miles Coverdale, locked in the sixteenth century where it precedes even King James' Authorized Bible.

This book of prayer, actually a Book of Common Prayer, was published in 1928, and it remains the main prayer book for many a conservative Anglican in the States. The Word on the page is spoken aloud, prayed aloud--Words of the Ages cleft in the Rock, now intones wisdom and grace.

Each morning I riffle the translucent pages until The Venite, the Call to Worship taken from Psalms 95 and 96, memorized through daily use over the last four years:

Venite, exultemus Domino.
O COME, let us sing unto the LORD; * let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation.
Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving; * and show ourselves glad in him with psalms.
For the LORD is a great God; * and a great King above all gods.
In his hand are all the corners of the earth; * and the strength of the hills is his also.
The sea is his, and he made it; * and his hands prepared the dry land.
O come, let us worship and fall down, * and kneel before the LORD our Maker.
For he is the Lord our God; * and we are the people of his pasture, and the sheep of his hand.
O worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness; * let the whole earth stand in awe of him.
For he cometh, for he cometh to judge the earth; * and with righteousness to judge the world, and the peoples with his truth.

How do we hide His Word in our hearts?

Through praying it each morning, each noon, each evening, each night before bed. Through intoning Words of Life, They indwell us. He indwells us.

No matter how many days I pray these prayers, never do these Words grow rote or roll off my tongue, through my head, without leaving a glimmer of Him behind. He never leaves, never forsakes. Never.

In the glister of candleflame, He flames forth, filling and fulfilling, every one of His Promises YES.

I eat this Book, sweet on my tongue and clinging to my heart.

As evening wanes and my flannel sheets call my name, I open Common Prayer and pray the heartfelt words of Mary in the Gospel of Saint Luke as she celebrates the One growing within her, the One who will save her and us all, and I magnify Him through her words, His Word:

MY soul doth magnify the Lord, * and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.
For he hath regarded * the lowliness of his handmaiden.
For behold, from henceforth * all generations shall call me blessed.
For he that is mighty hath magnified me; * and holy is his Name.
And his mercy is on them that fear him * throughout all generations.
He hath showed strength with his arm; * he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat, * and hath exalted the humble and meek.
He hath filled the hungry with good things; * and the rich he hath sent empty away.
He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel; * as he promised to our forefathers,
Abraham and his seed, for ever.

As eyes droop and spirits flag, His Word echoes in my mind, lulling me into His arms. I've been praying His Word...the Psalter now so familiar from praying it night and day each month over the years...the Canticles of Evening and Morning Offices of Prayer, breathed out, second nature to me, the Scriptures of Holy Communion prayed each Friday--Grace and Truth in action.

I pray these Words, and they implant, take root, send forth shoots into very soul. They become part of my thoughts, my words, and, I pray, my actions. They become bread and wine, very sustenance. I eat of them greedily, drink them down thirstily.

And they nourish, building my strength in Him, His Power in my spirit, my power in His Spirit.

The Word Made Real...through praying it daily.

In Common with thousands of others, I pray His Word.


Praying His Word in Common,

Seeing Him in the Meadow

It's one of the major reasons we bought this house. It's right outside our gate, and our front porch overlooks it all. It changes with the seasons: as it is now, browned with autumn frosts and thirsty from long summer drought.

It's peaceful and quiet, this piece of land outside our gate. It spreads itself out between the surrounding hills, purpled by sunset shadows. As light fades, the meadow shift subtly. As the seasons merge one into another, the meadow reflects the passing months in flora and fauna.

When snow falls in our Southern California village nestled in mountains 50 miles east of and 4000 feet above the sea, it's an event. Schools close, smoke from chimneys floats into paler grey skies, and the laughter of delighted children rings across the meadow. From the front porch I gaze across frosted lawn and whitened meadow fields, hands gripping tea mug, content in watching snowball ambushes and the creation of Calvin-styled snowmen.

And spring greens the fields as rains arrive, soaking the thirsty soil and birthing wildflowers galore.

And through all seasons, in all weathers, I see Him at work as His Creation groans under high winds that rake between mountain peaks, and sings with bloom of daffodils across the valley in April. His Resurrection calls across the green meadows each spring, reminding us of His sacrifice, His new life.

I see Him as Grace arrives in the form of welcome rain, so scarce in parched Southern California, often more brown than green. I see His gentleness in the small animals that skirt the new growth, shyly peeping at us as we stroll by on the road. I see His majesty in glorious sunsets that brighten dusky skies.

His beauty blooms forth in fresh spring foliage, in night skies studded with sparkling diamonds, the constellations glowing true, in fall colour dotting the treetops, in snow tumbling from leaden skies.

How can I not see Him in the midst of His Creation?

"Be exalted, O God, above the heavens! Let your glory be over all the earth!" --Psalm 57:5

Seeing Him here, now and always,

Seeing Christ in Joy

Our First Day of School This Year at Sea World

He's the family clown. The joy-bringer. The one who makes us crack up at the dinner table, food nearly falling from our mouths as we laugh. His face is so expressive, so flexible, so changeable, as he pulls it into one expression after another...sad, joyful, angry, excited, silly. Always silly. We laugh some more.

Tonight he crawls into my lap, this our youngest, almost eleven. Curling into a ball, he settles into me, asking me to pray for him. I pull him more firmly into my side, my free hand upon his soft red hair. He lowers bright blue eyes, ready for our bedtime prayers and my blessing.

This boy brimming with joy, the one who invokes laughter, is studious. He works hard, methodically checking his way through his assigned work each day of our home school. He's driven...much more so than his elder brothers. His focus is incredible. He impresses me. He is a late reader, but was an early writer, printing his entire eight-letter name by age three, writing it in perfect slanting cursive while still in first grade. He is justifiably proud of his penmanship.

Two weeks ago in our Morning Prayer time, we read Jesus' parable about the mustard seed in the Gospel of Saint Luke, about how it grows into the largest plant in the garden despite its being the smallest seed...practically microscopic. After we finished discussing the passage and praying, he came to me in tears.

He was afraid that he doesn't love God enough.

His face suffuses red, embarrassed but confiding. I bring him to the stairs leading to our second-floor bedroom where I settle him in my lap as I sit on the steps. He cuddles into me, seeking reassurance. His blue eyes swim with sadness and fear. We talk in quiet voices. I share with him; he listens, eagerly taking in the Truth that we sometimes cannot wrap our minds around.

How can Jesus love us so much? And how can we believe it?


I ask him if he wants me to pray for him; he nods his yes.

He trusts me to tell him Truth.

I hold him close, drinking in his sweet still-little-boy smell, praying for him.

And tell him Truth.

I see Christ in the blue eyes swimming in tears. I see Christ in his joy, in his diligence, in his love, in his trust.

I see Christ in my youngest child...and in all four of our children.

I pray they see Christ in me.

I remember Saint Patrick's "Breastplate Prayer"...and I pray part of it:

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I pray for Christ to shine through me as He shines through our youngest, our joy-bringer.

Praying for our children, this night and always,

Extending a Helping Hand

Image Attribution Tile Mosaic at God's Extended Hand, designed by Jeremy Wright, 16th and Island, Downtown San Diego

It's a long drive to downtown San Diego from our humble mountain home. On this first Friday of December, it was nearly dark when we pulled into the metered parking spot less than a block from our destination. In the van were our four kids, plus Father Acker and his wife Alice, and their neighbor Martha, from Alpine Anglican Church of the Blessed Trinity. We were joining our evangelical church, Lake Murray Community Church at our monthly dinner and worship service at God's Extended Hand, the oldest homeless mission in San Diego.

Father Acker unpacked his guitar while the boys unloaded my wheelchair, and this motley assortment of priest, women (one in a wheelchair), and kids entered the mission building on the corner of 16th and Island near the new Petco Park, home to the San Diego Padres baseball team.

Alice and Martha were quickly assimilated into the kitchen, helping to cook the dinner that would feed several hundred hungry souls this cold December night. Guitar in hand, Father Acker disappeared into the worship team practice at the front of the room, and the older three kids were given various tasks to do to get dinner ready. The blankets and jackets that had been collected all month, along with toothbrushes and toothpaste in small "goody bags," were lined up by the door for the end of the service, after the meal.

Our youngest clung to me in the large room with rows of long tables already filling an hour before the service was scheduled to start. He clambered onto my lap as I wheeled my chair out of everyone's busy way in the small kitchen/serving area. Soon I was given a job: to read the Scripture passage before the sermon--a job I could do, and gladly.

Men, and a very few women, ambled in, found a seat at a table in the warm room, and listened to the worship team practice Christmas favorites. Some chatted with neighbors at their tables; others remained locked in their own worlds. Some sang along with the practice songs. Several smiled at me, and I shyly returned their smiles; others looked right through me as I attempted to remain out of everyone's way.

At six the service began in earnest. It was strange and so very wonderful to see Father Acker playing with Lake Murray's worship team: a melding of the two churches I have attended each week for the past few years. We sang the Christmas standards, most of the mission's guests joining in with gusto. As the songs ended, I wheeled myself forward (having divested myself of our youngest for a short while) to read the verses from Isaiah the Prophet:

For to us a child is born,
to us a son is given;
and the government shall be upon his shoulder,
and his name shall be called
Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
Of the increase of his government and of peace
there will be no end,
on the throne of David and over his kingdom,
to establish it and to uphold it
with justice and with righteousness
from this time forth and forevermore.
The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.

After the sermon on the coming of the Christ Child, the retelling of the Story that never loses its power, our four children, along with children of other Lake Murray families, served the guests with trays of food piled high: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, vegetables, rolls, fruit, Christmas cookies. As the adults filled each tray down an assembly-line (I added the fruit), the kids took them to each person, serving them with a smile.

The servers and workers gulped down a little dinner after all the guests were fed, and we sat amongst the guests, chatting with them, getting to know them. My kids were a little shy but soon stepped out to talk while our youngest remained close to me.

As eight o'clock chimed from a nearby church tower, we were loading up guitar and wheelchair and heading back up the mountain. Somehow the Christmas Spirit had infected all of us, even this early in December...the Spirit who loves and serves, who feeds not just food but the Word and a listening ear.

Listening for His still, small voice,

Walking in Hope....

Ann at A Holy Experience, my favourite blog, posts a theme/spiritual discipline for us to share for Walk with Him Wednesday. This week Ann asked us to post on Caring for the Least of These; she posted on one of the children her family adopted through Compassion International and whom she will be visiting in Guatemala.


Matthew 25:31-40, ESV, states:

31 “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. 32 Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. 33 And he will place the sheep on his right, but the goats on the left. 34 Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36 I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ 37 Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? 38 And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? 39 And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’

40 "And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers [and sisters], you did it to me.’"

In the spirit of caring for others, I am posting two links to Children of Hope, a choir that came to our church in 2007 and 2009. I hope that you enjoy them as much as I did.

Children of Hope Concert

Children of Hope

To learn more about the organization behind Children of Hope, check out this link: World Help.

I still remember the beauty of these sweet children, singing with such joy and then concluding the concert by traveling between the rows, giving smiles and hugs to the audience. Even thinking back a few years, these concerts remain sharply in my memory.

Praying with you for "the least of these,"

The Spiritual Practice of Letting Go

The living room, our school area and the armchair and most of the sofa and a good bit of the hearth, is her packing area: Dorm Packing Central, I joke. She washes new blue dishes and slides them between bath towels to keep them from cracking. She unpacks bedroom closet and claims she "can't edit" her wardrobe, sounding more like Rachel Zoe than my familiar grounded daughter.

Her zebra-striped luggage yawns wide, and she folds a zebra-print dress, tucking it into the suitcase's wide mouth. I sigh, not allowing myself to think of missing her.

It's going to be a hard couple of days. Today, after work, she continues packing. Tomorrow afternoon we update her immunizations and perhaps see Inception with her best local friend. Friday afternoon we check her in at 2:00 PM--into her new home for the next nine months.

It just doesn't seem possible.

I can't plan for Monday's first day of our new year of home schooling the boys when my school area looks like a fashionista's hurricane. She tells me "what's in" this fall, gloating over her olive green military jacket, her long black trench, her cream-and-lace over-jumper which hangs nearly to her knees, the arms beautifully tucked. She pairs it with pale purple top--her color this year--khaki skinny jeans and high wedges. She's captivated. I am, too.

And I mourn.

My little girl, so grown up.

Is this fashionable young woman the same one whom I taught to read, whom I educated for all but one year of her schooling? She grins with excitement, one of her many lists clutched in her hand, preparing to leave, to move into Nease Hall at Point Loma Nazarene University. Fifty miles away. It seems farther than that.

I remember my own days of packing for the PLNU dorms, of being so excited and so scared. She has many advantages I didn't: Facebook groups to meet fellow incoming freshmen months in advance, learning who her roommate is ahead of time so they can text each other regarding fridges and printers, room decor and snacks. I didn't meet my roommates until I arrived; we were four to a room. She and Jessica share a smaller room in what used to be the sophomore dorms, back when I attended, twenty-five years ago.

She continues tucking half of her bedroom into black-and-white striped luggage: boots, bomber jacket, the cool purple argyle socks she couldn't resist at Target. She continues placing my heart there, too, the heart that will go wherever she does. I hope for texting so that we can communicate during our days, so that I won't disturb her in class, at work, while hanging out with new friends. But she can disturb me. Any time.

I pray. For her, my girl. For me, the only female left in the house. (Yes even the dog and both rats are male, not to mention three boybarians and a dear husband.) Our evenings will be quiet...too quiet. But at least she'll be home most weekends--the advantage of moving only 50 miles away. I'll pick her up after her Friday afternoon classes; we'll drop her off after Sunday church and lunch.

It's a letting go. The first one. The hardest one. I will not be leaving her on Friday after she unpacks the van and starts arranging her room; I'll be there for New Student Orientation the rest of Friday and all day Saturday. I'm sure I'll have tears. It's natural. Even expected.

The first chick is trying her wings. Momma Bird looks on, proud and sad at same time--missing her so much. Already.

Parenting is so beautiful, and so sweet, and sometimes, bittersweet.

Like now.

Letting go a wee bit at a time,