Maddie and I on the Way

It was lovely.We had just returned from writing poetry by the river. Moments of peace. Now, I am sitting by the fire with my rosary in hand. Then, it struck me. It's Tuesday.The Sorrowful Mysteries.On Christmas. I was tempted to cheat and do the Joyful. Who would know ? But that didn't seem like it would be a true rosary, so I relented.

Tell me I am not the only one who would rather focus on joys and glorious things rather than sad ones. I think that I am a little afraid of the sorrowful mysteries and I don't even know what that means. But then something happened that was so wonderful.

The night before, at the Children's Mass, my 6 year old granddaughter, Maddie,  asked about one of the Stations of the Cross that she could see from her seat.These Stations are created out at the monastery and are of stained glass.So colorful and beautiful. They catch the eye even though that night they were hard to see for the crowds.These stations depict what happened to Christ in His last hours on earth and as He walked the streets on His way to the cross.Pretty grim and sorrowful.

Maddie's first question was: "Did He want to die?"Then," why are they taking His robe?" and on it went. I felt privileged to be holding her hand as we journeyed from place to place. I had to move  the choir bongos to see the last one; Christ wrapped up and heading for the grave. This was much like going from one sad bead to the next.

As I prayed the rosary,  this came to me; when I travel these sorrowful mysteries twice a week, I am no longer by myself on this sad trek. In some way that I know to be true but have no idea how, my Maddie is with me , holding my hand. I am not alone.

visiting graves to say thank you.

What else can you do to pay homage to those who have transformed your life ?And so it was on a startling blue fall day that we traipsed around the cemetery in Concord looking for Thoreau.Why him? Reading what he wrote and seeing the way he tried to live gave comfort to my nature loving introverted soul."I love to be alone....books are the treasured wealth of the world..we need the tonic of wildness...".He spoke my language and he is beloved.

I am not the only one who loves Henry.We finally found his plain tombstone and unlike his three siblings, the top of his was white, clean white. I could almost see the hands of the thousands who love him, stroking the top as I was.

It was by accident that we came to be looking at Robert Frost's grave in Bennington , Vermont. There he was, that American poet who wrote about the solidarity he felt with the grass mower who left a tuft of wildflowers uncut as the poet himself would have.The three of us caught in the beauty of those flowers in his poem.And yes, there were three birches surrounding his grave."One can do worse than be a swinger of birches."

Willa Cather, that writer whose gorgeous prose almost had me packing a bag and heading out for New Mexico or Nebraska, is buried in New Hampshire. Maybe,I 'll get there one day. Georgia O'Keeffe, whose art and life enchant me is spread on top of her beloved Perdenales mountain.What a wonderful trek that would be to pay my respects.

There is one person in my panoply of hero artists that I will probably never visit. She wrote light, enchanting Christian books in the 70s. These joy filled, honest memoirs helped my stumbling faith in its beginning. Ann Kiemel was a runner when I wasn't, she shared her faith when I didn't but she loved the Lord as I was starting to. And she was bold about it.

The introduction to one of her books begins this way : "every morning I wake up with a prayer: 'Jesus , i am just ann,  my city is so big (Boston), make me creative, give me ideas for my corner of the world.' I can't tell you how much I love that.

Having read most of her books, I then lost touch with her doings. A few years back, I found her blog, "I am running to win", and again, she inspired. In 2014, she passed away and I can't find where she is buried. I am sure in California where she lived then.

This Christmas, my runner granddaughter is going to get two of her books. They are used but to me those are the best. Most have a message of love on the inside; I find them to be treasures. Maybe Ann's words will stir something wonderful in my McKenna and in her time, perhaps she will visit and say thank you for both of us.

trying hard to show love.

Four male turkeys are resting in the leaves in the woods out back. They are huge and pretty stunning when they chase us around our driveway. Windham Hill artists are pleasantly filling the day with calm and cheer. Winter.

Something kept going through my mind as Mass was about to begin.....God tries so hard to show us His love.That thought kept swirling around like a colorful mist. I know it is true in my core. I sat in peace with this knowing. Yes, above all else, that is what He does. It is the direction that His energy goes:  a sunset here, a particularly beautiful leaf there, a swaying branch with snow when everything else around is still, a kindness.

If we truly know that, what else matters? Truly.

As I was leaving church, a member of our writing group shared an insight that she received while on retreat:
Be still and be in the moment.Yes, oh yes. What a gift. Will we see that sunset, that leaf, that snow encrusted branch at all? Pay attention, He is moving. Do not think ahead, see the leaves under your feet ? Here. Now.

Another member of that group of courageous writers gifted me with his first book today. So much work has gone into this labor of his heart. Inside was a poem of his creating, that thanked me for our group. A very lovely thank you.

On a Sunday morning, what I heard came to be. "Look at these two gifts that you hold to your heart. See?"

looking for Thomas Merton.

It was a bright summer day. I remember every detail. Having been urged to faith by the words of the monk , Thomas Merton, I was on the way to a pilgrimage of sorts.Now living in Louisville, I would finally be able to see the Trappist monastery where he lived and wrote, Gethsemane.

This sentence he wrote in 1965 touches me again: "I come into solitude to die and love. I come here to be created by the Spirit of Christ."

John and I and our three young children wandered the grounds and visited the chapel. I have pictures of them tumbling down a small hill as we sauntered in the shade of old trees. A most pleasant day, as I looked for the spirit of the monk whose writings had lit a fire in me. Merton had died 5 years before in 1968.

Up a gravel path came a monk in denim with a sunshine smile of hello.Ah, here was a monk like my dear Merton.We can chat and talk of holy things.We walked and talked and I found him to be so honest, so likable.He was tall, slender and in his 40s and before long he shared this: "I don't know what I am doing here.I have lost my faith and want to leave." Oh, my.

He became our friend and would write beautiful notes to us. I loved his writing. He came for dinner a few times and later revealed he had fallen in love with a nurse and was due to leave.Soon we moved back to Georgia but kept in touch. I would send him an overtly religious Christmas card and he would offer a black and white card with birds.We continued this for years and, when
 I could, I shared my faith.

His last note , a few years back, brought tears to my eyes.It was just this, part of a famous poem:

                                         "I fled Him down the nights and down the days,
                                         ..I hid from Him..........still with unhurrying pace came 
                                                the following Feet and a Voice, 
                                                 'Rise, clasp My hand and come.'

                                            'The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson...

Streams will burst forth in the desert.

His friends must have loved him. He lay on a thick mat and with ropes they hoisted his weak body up onto the roof and then down through a hole in the roof. What a sight to those gathered as he lay at Christ's feet. Eyes searching the Face. Heal me, please.

This reminded me of something that I hadn't thought of in years. It was spring break thirty years ago and I took my youngest son and his friend to the monastery in Conyers. They may have been 11 years old and ready for an adventure.

It is always there, the entrance road that leads past tall, full magnolia trees.They are the welcoming committee. The path through the trees begins the transition from the profane to the holy. From the  noise to deep silence.

On that day, as we sauntered down to the pond where the geese rule, I saw a stranger ahead. As we approached, I could see he was a young priest and his face was beaming with warmth. As we got closer, I could tell that he was wanting to talk.We sat on a bench as the boys wandered. I wish I knew his name. He shared that he was on retreat after the busy Easter doings at his church in Massachusetts.And then he began as tears filled his eyes.

It was Holy Thursday and, as he gave out Communion, he noticed an older man who had just received, standing in front of him. He was swaying and his face was awash in tears. He stood there for the longest time before returning to his pew. After Mass, the same man approach my new friend and simply said: "I can see."The man had been blind for many years as a result of diabetes and on that holy night his sight was restored. We both sat in profound silence and wonder. It was such a holy moment and for the first time, I can tell this story of healing.The paralyzed man walked and the blind man saw.

Across from the monastery is a green cemetery. Surrounded by three tall trees is the place where John and I will rest after our journey. The hill slopes a bit but it is shady and peaceful. It is here that our remains will be but..."Those whom the Lord has ransomed will return and enter Zion singing, crowned with everlasting joy; They will meet with joy and gladness, sorrow and mourning will flee." Amen.

can a park become glorious?

Can a humble place where animals shelter and feed be glorious? Hmmmm. The writer of today's Advent meditation said that very thing.The Lord did not need a castle as a place to be born.Where He was born didn't matter because anywhere Love appears becomes glorious. I really like that idea. And then it came to me. A scene in a park.

It was a Facebook video of a curly haired little boy, perhaps three years old, wandering around Piedmont Park. His parents had told him it was time to go and to say good-bye and off he went on a mission. Sitting down, walking towards him, people with their backs to him, nothing mattered as he hugged each person and then moved to the next.The smiles, the unconstrained joy!  It was if this child had golden pixie dust and he just sprinkled it on everyone in the park.What he did that day, brought tears. A glorious thing.

"Then the wolf shall be a guest of the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid;The calf and the young lion shall browse together, with a little child to guide them.....There shall be no harm or ruin on all my holy mountain; and the earth shall be filled with the knowledge of the Lord as water covers the sea." Isaiah 12:6-9.

Abide the Winter

Dried leaves crunching under my shoes. Broken sticks blown down. A pink rose petal in a puddle.The only color in the woods, the tawny beech leaves. Spare, stark, clean and simple : winter.

The darkness comes and will reach its depth at the solstice. By then we will be looking for more brightness beyond colored Christmas lights. Windham Hill artists present a song, "Abide the Winter". Perhaps we can do more than abide it. Maybe we can poke around in the darkness of this bitter season and find bright shining objects.That is what I will do this Advent.

As I listen to the music of the above named group,  I think of a call I made today to a person that I have met just a few times.The last time was at the doctor's office where I was dreading the discomfort of a mammogram. I know Irma from church and, that day, she walked up and whispered: "I have breast cancer."This dear soul has been battling this disease off and on for years. She is now 80 and you will find no person on this earth who is more alive and joyful.And loving.It is an honor to breath the same air as she.Today, her news was good, she has stopped taking some medicine and is feeling well enough to go to church again.

As we closed the conversation, I told her about the new baby Graham that arrived last month."Oh" she said, "he must have a warm hat and a blanket", which she will make.Light.

Advent is the season of waiting for the coming. And in the rich dichotomy that my faith provides: He is coming and He is here.The Light.