the pict cross

On the wall of the St. Machar's Cathedral in Aberdeen is a block of stone held by four black spikes.On the face of the stone is what is described as a pict cross dated 580 A.D.The stone was found in a dyke in 1923,somewhere in the city ,and was turned over to King's College who loaned it to the Cathedral.

I couldn't stop staring at it.This carving was done over 1400 years ago and is still here.How many things can that be said about? What tools were used to make the smooth grooves?How many years was it hidden in that dyke as just another piece of stone? Was the artist a believer or had he been commissioned?I think it is still here because it was a labor of love.

I visualize approaching the artist as he worked.Long stringy hair hides his eyes.He is in his late 30s and probably will not live past his 40s but at this moment he is strong and very focused on gently hammering the stone.His muscles ripple and he is thin and wiry.I sit on a log next to him and try to speak.He turns and his face shows puzzlement.The Pict language he speaks will die out and I have no way to communicate.He sees my laptop and I want to tell him that I am e-mailing my family in America.He would think ,"What is America?"It would be 1200 years before the United States will exist.How to explain 9-11? Tall, glass buildings;airplanes flown by Saudis ? This man has never seen a book.His concerns are getting enough peat or wood for a winter fire,food for his family and finishing his cross.

What did that cross mean to the man? Over 500 years,on foot, boat, horse, the gospel had been carried from the Middle East to Scotland.And its symbol was now being carved by this simple man.What was his understanding of its meaning ?How different or similiar is the faith that we share?So many questions.

I love old things.The Book of Kells in Dublin was transcribed in beautiful color in 800 A.D.It is in Dublin at Trinity College and you may view it for two seconds before you are urged to move on because of the crowds.My family Bible, which was given by my grandfather to my grandmother in 1890,rests on my table.My great-grandfather sent letters home from his ships during the the Civil War dated 1860 through 1865.I have had them laminated to keep them intact for another 500 years.Things that last.

iona

The trip to Scotland was a pilgrimage of sorts;I wanted to see and experience the land which my dear Grandmother had left as an infant and to set foot on the holy island of Iona.This is the place where Columba landed in 563 A.D.,determined to spread the Christian faith beyond Ireland.

In August,while in prayer,I experienced the impression that I would be given something on the trip.My response was to honestly think that I deserved nothing but would happily receive anything given.And that was that.

We travelled through Scotland,or Caledonia, for 14 days.It rained on and off for 13 of those days and it was windy and cold.I had to buy a hat,woolen scarf and gloves to fend off this unexpectedly bitter weather.But, the only day that we would spend on Iona, the sun was brilliant.Thus we were able to hike the two miles to the labyrinth at the southern end of the island.To get there,we walked down a country road that turned into a sheep pasture,then a rocky path over steep hills and finally to the beach.

The setting for this prayer path was indescribable.Hills,ocean, rocky beach,heather,and glorious sunshine.Finally, after laying on the beach and recovering from the hike,I stepped onto the labyrinth.I tried to empty myself of all thought and just "be" on the path.This labyrinth is like no other.Not only do wet rocks mark the path,but the path itself is strewn with kelp,sheep and cow droppings,some shells and a bit of heather.Scotland!

As I slowly walked ,saying a brief prayer,I was overtaken with peace.I do not know any other way to say this.I was not thinking of peace or relaxation,it just came and my whole body eased.It was as if I was being told this: "you are not in charge,do not worry about trains/buses and accomodations.This is not your trip to manage,I am in charge."

Perhaps ,this is the difference between a vacation and a pilgrimage.I had been so uptight about getting around,contracting a cold which would instantly turn into pneumonia,catching the right bus,ducking out of the rain, that I forgot that I was seeking the One who is in charge.The rest of the trip was a breeze.

the scots

If you are descended from the Scots race,I encourage you to walk a wee bit taller this morning.These are a good and gracious people.I know that this is cheeky of me to suggest after only two weeks strolling through the heather but I want to tell you why;what I saw.

On the interminable ferry ride from Mull to Oban, a young woman came up to a man she had noticed, and insisted that she take one of his bags.He had several,was bent,white haired and struggling.When he got off the ferry, she came over and gave it back,having taken it up and down several flights of stairs.He glowed as he introduced this kind stranger to his waiting sister.He will never forget her and neither will I.

On the bus ride to Fort William, an older gentlemen told the bus driver that he wanted to get off the bus to go to another stop and on to Glasgow.He wondered if there would be room for him.The driver pulled over, called the other bus to check for seat availability and assured the man there was space and let him off to be picked up in minutes.The bus drivers in Scotland should get medals.The roads are narrow, buses huge and for him to listen to that man much less help him in that way,was startling.

I am not going to dwell on the constant rain that plagued our two weeks but when I got caught in a mini-monsoon and was soaked to the skin, Ian, our B and B host offered to dry my clothes,which saved the day.With his white hair, ruddy cheeks and smile, he was Scotland to me.The room in that B and B which was on Skye, took my breath away when we entered.Three windows looking out on mountains, harbor, hills and clouds.Wonderful.

When we arrived there,after two buses,I begged off another bus trip around the island and sat in the small stone bench park with my journal.In the distance was the remains of a castle,hills and a huge sky.I was wrapped in my new tartan scarf, hat, gloves and 2 coats.A thin young man in his twenties,dressed in a parka,knitted hat and jeans came over to see if I was a statue.We laughed and started to chat.Scott had come from Glasgow for a holiday with his much loved spaniel.We shared our love of dogs and laughed over the book "Braveheart" which was in my lap.He said he hoped that I knew it was mostly fiction.

We also talked about the Brits who he humbly characterized as arrogant.He loathed how they looked down on the Scots.He said perhaps it was soccer that made him feel this way or maybe it's genetic.The Scots suffered terribly under English rule.One town,Berwick on Tweed,which we never got to, was completely destroyed by the tall, odious English King Eward Longshanks;he who threw his son's lover out the window to his death in Mel Gibson's movie.17,000 men,women and children were left to rot in that town;he refused to allow them to be buried.Then he brought Scot nobles to view the scene as a lesson.

What struck me about Scott was his friendliness.Most hormone charged young men would find little value in chatting with a white haired,wrapped up like a mummy, woman.A good Scot.

I wasn't looking for these things;in fact I was so tired most of the time, my eyes were little slits and I was just trying to get through the day.But like the bits of sunshine that every once in awhile painted the hills,these graces came.

scotland

a bench on Skye Isle,
curled in my lap in the wind,
a warm white/grey cat.

Brenda and the orchid

For at least twenty years, I have been meeting with a group of friends to share our faith.
I don't know if we are steel magnolias, but we have seen each other through deaths of spouses and siblings,illnesses ,dramas of our children and many good times.Mostly, we share what the Lord is doing in our lives and how we might be serving Him.There are five of us.

Two weeks ago, we met at my house to celebrate a birthday of one of the other members and when Brenda arrived, she handed me an orchid in a pot and one in water.I got chills up my arms,down my back and in my feet.I am getting them again as I type.Let me explain.

Twice this month, I was at Kroger when I passed their plant department.Amassed there were gorgeous orchids with white, pink and purple blooms and one marked a bit lower in price because it had lost it's flowers.I wanted that orphan.Both times,I left the store without it because I didn't need it.I really wanted it,though.

What Brenda handed me was exactly the plant I had wanted.How does this happen?

I first met Brenda when her daughter was 15 years old and in my Sunday school class.She was one of my favorite students,a loving ,sweet girl; sadly her father was dying during that year.Her fellow students formed a loving community around her and I felt blessed to be part of that.Her daughter is now 38 years old,so Brenda and I have a long history.It is so easy to love Brenda.She is possessed of a wonderful smile,a gold medal hug and is constantly looking for ways to serve her Lord.The stunning thing about what happened is that this is not the first time Brenda has known my wishes without my saying a word.

Twelve years ago,I was driving home from work on the freeway and I saw a billboard sign for Noritake china and glass products.The ad was attractive and I thought,"Oh, I would like a piece of that." Two days later, our group met for my birthday and I unwrapped Brenda's gift, a perfect bud vase.The box said Noritake.

Are these coincidences? How does this work?Brenda had probably purchased the vase before I had that thought.But I had passed that sign hundreds of times without even noticing it very much.Is there a special connection between people that pray together?Or does the Lord know the desires of our hearts and uses others to show His love?

This is what I believe to be true. Brenda,being open,was the vessel the Lord used to let me know that He sees and the desire of His heart is to bless me.This plant is much more than an orchid.It is a mystery and a sign and I am humbled by it.

Steve Jones,Jennifer Capriati and the human race

Whenever I see a picture or a film clip of Serena Williams, I get choked up.You see, I am Serena's' biggest fan although she doesn't know it.

In 2004,I watched Serena play in the U.S. Open against Jennifer Capriati.The match was a long one and they were playing an important point when it happened;a call in Capriati's favor that was so egregious that I almost put my shoe through the T.V screen.A Serena shot was called out that was so obviously in, the fans could do nothing but groan.Capraiti won the match and Serena walked towards the stands, head down with tears in her eyes and not a word from her lips.I was so angry and sad.I wanted to hop a flight and go hug her in the locker room.I will never forget that feeling and that I was watching greatness.

In the after game interview,Capriati was asked why she didn't say something about the terrible call,which she could plainly see was in ,to the judge.Her answer was that she had her own share of bad calls.Jennifer, Jennifer, you missed your chance.Who but you remembers that you won that quarter-final?But if you had been a real sportsman, your name would be in lights.

Let me tell you what I mean.There is a Welsh runner named Steve Jones.He is the former world marathon record holder.A great runner but in the sports world he is also remembered for what he did in one race that he was winning.It was an important race,they all are at his level, and close to the end a competitor in his line of vision stumbled and fell.Jones stopped running ,dashed over and helped the guy up and they both ran on.Jones didn't win that race but he is winning the Human Race.This is the one where we will be asked to review our "race" and how we helped the brothers and sisters with whom we share this place and time.

My second son is a wonderful runner, state champ in cross country twice and track champion as well.They used to call him Q-tip in high school because he was skinny with a crop of almost white hair.In his Sophomore year he came in third at the state meet so we knew great things were coming.But when he meets the Creator, I don't see Him slapping His forehead and saying,"You came in first, here, there and there.". What I see being replayed is the morning he stopped a great run in Atlanta to help an elderly lady who was trying to put sticks in her trash and couldn't break them over her knee.Or the time he gave a free pair of running shoes that he had won, to a disabled runner he knew who couldn't afford a new pair.Or the extra care he gave to a shy and lonely boy at running camp that freed this boy to be a kid.

What I see is him standing amidst Perfect Love and being shown the times when he came so close to that.This is a race he is running very well.

the Drowning

It is not clear to me now what the lifeguards saw that summer afternoon in 1962;why four of them leapt from their high white stands and dragging ropes and floaters headed for the water.As they ran, everything seemed to stop,the cries of children,music from transistor radios,the languor of the beach itself,was swept away.

Other lifeguards raced to put up green flags as warning to call swimmers out of the water.A sudden undertow had developed in the surf and like a beast was clawing at the sand and pulling everything out and out and under.The man they saw was helpless, overcome and under.

As they brought the man out of the water, a hushed crowd assembled ,drawn by the impossible.This was Jones Beach and this doesn't happen.A corridor in the midst of the crowd was left for the lifeguards to bring him up and try to revive him.

Near where I was standing, a young woman in her late twenties stood up and started to turn in circles crying,"That's my husband,that's my husband."Out of the crowd,five strangers moved towards her as if summoned.We took her hands and gently lead her to sit in the sand and one young man began to pray the rosary.We all joined in, over and over, the Our Father ,the Hail Mary.The woman had her back to the man and the lifeguards as they worked .They had him over a big blue barrel and kept pounding and pushing ,sea water spewing from his eyes,mouth and his ears.I watched to see some ,any ,small movement,a hand thrust up or a turn of his head, but there was nothing.

I don't know how long we stayed with her as they worked until she saw two people walking our way.She recognized them and ran into their arms.The small circle of strangers got up and without a word or a nod ,walked away.My friend and I left the beach.Our 20 minute ride home was somber.The next day, I read that the man had indeed drowned,the first person to do so at Jones Beach.I thought of those well trained ,dedicated lifeguards and how diligently they had worked to bring that man back.How they must have felt about this first drowning on their watch.

But now, from a distance of more than 40 years ,I also think of those five strangers who happened to be the same religion as the victim's wife.Who stepped out of the crowd and held her together until she was with friends when she finally learned the truth.I think of the old hymn."You are the Body of Christ"and believe that,by grace,on that day,we were.