Rhythms of Sacred Time

                                                                                                                           Photo by Amy Luschen on Unsplash

There is a white-breasted blue jay out my window. Not a scrub jay, stellar jay, or grey jay—a blue jay. They were common enough where I grew up, but in Colorado, "regular old" blue jays are a special treat. He looks bright against the clear sky and crisp snow. 

Birds and trees draw me deeply into the joy of nature. The stillness of nature. The melancholy of nature. Like the flock of crows I stood silent under yesterday. The clouds were low and heavy, light snow was sifting down, and bird after black bird pressed his outline against the winter sky. 

Today I am reminded of that throng of birds as I listen to Spiegel im Spiegel by Arvo Pärt. The piece begins with silence; it is somehow sparse and simultaneously spacious. Like the shades of white and grey and black yesterday. The limited light and colour pallet of the snowy day allowed for depth and detail one might miss on a bright day. It was solemn—grand and causing reflection—and expansive. The quiet of the fine, falling snow, the swish of wings—occasionally broken by the coarse cry of a crow, coming in wave after wave—and the weight of the clouds were all sparse and expansive in their own way. It was balm to my ragged, tired soul

The beginning of December feels like a marathon, trying to cram in long hours at work and  with people in every free evening. There are plans, plans, plans—and though they are enjoyable, the amount of scheduling and coordinating is exhausting. To tell the truth, I get very grumpy at this time of year. I don't even want to go to the events. I just want to curl up in my own home, light candles, listen to quiet music, and read Adventy things. But I rarely do that, because the evenings are full. 

Then, in creeps the resentment. I wrestle with this resentment of other people planning my schedule for me. What if I simply want to stay home and not rush, for once? I've tried this a few times, only to fill in the free nights with work or to have someone unexpectedly appear at my door. Indeed, I sabotage myself the most. Whether I stay home or go somewhere with a sigh and a "because I have to" feeling, it all comes from my perspective or perception. The reality is, I feel rushed because some part of me doesn't want to let others down or because I didn't employ good boundaries. I don't start with stopping, much of the time. And so, what should feel like a celebratory time feels like an exhausting rush.

The thing I've begun to see about time this year, as I consider the mo'edim (appointed times/seasons/days) is that I am not good at rhythms. I used to be. I used to have quiet time in the morning, used to go for walks before work, used to have margin. I began much more from stopping (Shabbat) and loved sacred celebrations (Sukkot). I also didn't work full time and knew fewer people in the area. . . which certainly meant there were more free hours in the week to employ contemplatively. 

How did I fall out of step in the Great Dance? When did I begin trying to fill every crevice of the week days with work and people, leaving no room for quiet space with God? I feel like Moses in Exodus eighteen, hearing the people from morning till evening. Rather than evening and morning it is backwards: morning and evening—not the rhythm given by God in Genesis one. So, how do I begin the evening before? How do I begin with Shabbat, stopping? What do I need to leave (Pesach)? And what do I need to learn to receive (Shavuot)?

Perhaps I need to take lessons from Spiegel im Spiegel, to begin with silence. To not fill every crevice in the music of daily life with 'noise' as it were. I need more silent space in my days and weeks. There are always podcasts, books, music, conversations, and more to fill each hour with sound. But what if I chose silence in those spaces? Silence on my walks? What if I chose not to multi-task all of the time? Inside my mind is screaming out, "So much would be left undone!" And I don't mean in the task sense. What would end up "undone" is conversations with people. And I think people are the most important beings in the universe, in life. Or do I?

I know I'm unhealthy when I feel like there is no room for people. But who do I decide to connect with, and who do I need to move on from? I have realised that I cannot possibly stay in touch with everyone I've met or known. Not unless I quit my job, and I have to be able to feed people when connecting with them! What if I'm ready to move on and let some relationships drift apart and the people on the other end want to hang on? 

Here is where I come back to resentment (a constant theme I've noticed in my adult life). When someone is trying to celebrate me specifically (or celebrate with me), but doesn't offer what I feel would be a greater gift (not having to get together yet another night), a wrestling match ensues within. I don't want to hurt someone's feelings (though I have, plenty of times!), but I also don't want to have to do something I don't feel like doing. At that point, I feel like I'm not appreciating the time and effort of another (definitely not okay in my value system), but I also feel like I'm not able to choose how I want to celebrate—so a boundary is broken and I feel stepped on or like my desires aren't respected.

Right about now anyone who might actually be reading this rambling of mine is probably thinking, "What the heck is your problem?! You have friends who want to spend time with you! That is a gift!" Well yes, it is. But sometimes what this actually feels like is: everyone wants a piece of me—to the point that I am so disintegrated that I don't exist anymore. I can't be me, I can't be a whole human, if I'm constantly pulled to pieces. I will be a snippy, snappy, no-good-to-anyone, resentful person if I keep getting pulled to pieces. And the older I get, the more people I know, and the more directions I feel pulled in. 

Since you can't sort out friends like you sort out your closet and take some of it to Goodwill, what is a person supposed to do? Some old friends, like a favourite sweater, you want to keep close. They are comfortable (even when they tell you to shape up) and cosy and just right for any season. But some old friends are like your favourite pair of jeans that have holes in unseemly places. They were great for a time, but some good things have a shorter lifespan than others. You can't keep holding on to the jeans hoping you can keep wearing them. But people...people are intrinsically infinitely more valuable than jeans. If you have tried the slow fade (not answering calls and e-mails as quickly) and have mentioned that life is going a different direction for you and they still hang on, there is friction—which happens to be rather uncomfortable. 

Discomfort isn't always a sign that you need to leave something or someone, it can be a sign of growth, too. But discerning between growth and death is difficult. A baby must grow in the womb to keep it safe, but if it stays too long, it will actually die. A snake must shed its skin to keep growing, and a butterfly must wrest its way out of the cocoon to strengthen and form its wings. Some relationships need to be grown out of, and some need to be adjusted. I often feel the snake reference when I am home with my parents. I love them dearly! But when I go home, I feel like I automatically am being stuffed back into that skin that is ten sizes too small for me now. I choose it; my parents sort of assume it; even family friends expect me to be that person I was. But I'm not that person. I don't fit in that skin. In fact, I am probably more like the caterpillar who has become the butterfly. Not only do I not fit in the cocoon, I'm a very different creature now! But I try to become a caterpillar again because I am back in the cocoon of my parents' home and their world/schedule. Yet I don't fit. And I don't fit in various friendships now, either. For some, I am ready to move on, even if the other people aren't.

On the flip side, there have been friendships I was loathe to lose. I wanted to go back to what we had (or continue it), even when they needed to move on and grow apart. I hated that! So I  do have compassion for the friends I have moved away from and the ones I'd like to step away from. However, I won't continue to be myself or the person that any of my friends like if I keep getting pulled to bits. When close friends begin telling me, "You seem really out of sorts or not like yourself," I know I'm in the downward spiral of being overwhelmed in every area of life. And when I don't feel like celebrating what should be celebrated (or lamenting what should be lamented), I know I'm disintegrating. When I can't feel happiness or sadness, something is terribly wrong, I've been terribly "busy"—unable to connect with myself, but more, unable to connect with God, who puts me back together again when I've begun to splinter.

It is what feels like a lack of time that causes this decay in me. When I think of sacred time and the rhythms of the mo'edim, I feel envious when I see other people living in a place of sacred abundance or holy celebration. I want the quiet space to journal and read poetry and Scripture. That is part of the celebration of any season, but especially during Lent and Advent. I want to begin with stopping—re-creating and being re-created by God. I want to give of myself, my time, my creativity (of which there is none when I'm fractured), my finances, and my hospitality—but I can't give to everyone. And perhaps I un-discerningly choose the wrong people to give to, so that I have nothing left for my old friends... But I want to give to those on the fringes, who often feel unseen, how do I see them and also see my old friends? 

I believe I need to leave my broken way of seeing. I begin to realise that I am seeing the land of abundance as if it were the land of lack. I am seeing the Promised Land as if it were Egypt. I'm seeing a blessing as if it were a curse—and so it becomes a curse to me. I want to receive the gifts God gives as though there were the good He intended—whether it is the gift of time, the gift of friendship, the gift of silence, the gift of space (all of which must be stewarded well); or the gift of lack (which leads me to need God), the gift of small spaces (that I might learn to be myself where I thought I had to be someone else), and the gift of noise (which makes me grateful for the silence and stillness when I am able to receive them).

And now I return to birds—the swift-flying crows, the brilliant blue jay, the cheery little nuthatches I often see on the scrub oaks. . . Birds are a sign of fecundity and a symbol of freedom. Perhaps I am drawn to them, inspired by them, because I long for life and liberty. Not the "liberty" that is really license (doing whatever I want), but of the true freedom that comed from breaking out of one skin to be contained in the next skin. Snakes don't stop being snakes when they shed their skin, they simply grow bigger. A caterpillar metamorphoses into a butterfly, but it would not be free to really be a butterfly if it continued to use only its legs (like a caterpillar) and never its wings. Likewise, I want to be free to be myself, the human God made me to be, which means I have limits and boundaries, but there is an expansive freedom within those boundaries... Like a doorway limits the size of what can go through it, but on the other side there may be rolling fields and open skies for those who can go through.

“Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate
And though I oft have passed them by
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”
― J.R.R. Tolkien

Genesis Two

Because he fell short
God caused him to fall asleep
—a death—to rise
to new life: two life.

From enticing sleep, deep
God took a wife
from the Dustling's side,
a beam from the Holy Space
filled with brooding Spirit;
He joined the beam
and breath into body,
built before the face
of the one (now two)
where he stood entranced.

They stood face-to-face,
she opposite to him—
the first step in the dance,
the resounding hoofbeat
of the self.
The essence
now substance,
soft body
laced over bone
in concert—
uncovered...
...whole.

For the Creator took fullness
and split it in two,
making wholeness
until all comes together anew.

Unforced Rhythms

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”¹

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion?" Well, yes. Yes I am, I thought upon reading those words one morning. Summer is hot—full of sweaty, heavy work. Summer is crowded with delightful people visiting my state, inviting me to join them for celebrations or conversations. This is excellent—but also draining. I crave weekends with no plans or expectations. I tend to burn out like a sparkler sometime in late July. Everything is an eager spark right until the end of the wire. Then I'm simply a bare, hot piece of metal—useless and a bit dangerous.

As if this were not already a difficult season, this summer has been full of more violence than any other which I can remember. Our country, culture, and world seem to be gathering speed for a headlong crash into something history-making, or perhaps even history-breaking. My emotional empathy feels stretched to capacity, to shattering. News reports begin to glance off of me, as if real humans were not killing others or being killed. I feel stuck inside an insidious nightmare from which I cannot wake. I fear losing feeling in my heart—in my outstretched hands wanting to comfort, wanting to heal, wanting to help those who have been bereft of loved ones, safety, and homeland.

Sometimes I shove grieving off to a more convenient time, because I simply cannot bear it and everything else my daily life calls out of me. So, I run to whatever will help me escape the things I don't want to consider or process. They might be the exact same things that normally breathe life into me, but rather than receiving them as gifts, I grasp at them, hoping they will save me. I try to force stories or visits with friends to block out the darkness, the bleeding wounds I cannot heal, the world full of people whom I cannot turn toward God.

Jesus calls, "Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest." Come. I drag my heels a good bit. Rest is deeply appealing, but when? When do I have time to get away with Jesus? It all depends on what I long for. There is always time to do what my heart longs for. One more dinner with friends, one more chapter, jotting another e-mail, a walk under the stars before bed. . .But am I seeking to meet Jesus in those places, or am I using them to distract myself from the destruction I cannot control or stop?

Patiently, so patiently, I hear my Saviour invite, "Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it." Watch how I do it. How can I do that? The answer is not difficult: read the gospels. Study Jesus. How does He treat broken people? How does He treat hardened people—like the arrogant religious leaders? How does He seek rest and refreshment for Himself? What is His motivation, His heart's desire? What work is He is doing which He is calling us to join?

Digging through the gospels shows me layers of answers to all of those questions. In recent years, I have discovered that the last two go together. Over and again in the book of John, the desire of Jesus' heart is to glorify His Father and to obey His will. What is that will? The Father desires to bring His Kingdom to earth. But here is the astonishing part: that is the work which Jesus is calling us to join in with Him! He has chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise. He has chosen the weak things to exhibit His strength. The Father is bringing His Kingdom through Jesus working in us. We are repealing the corruption and darkness of the Fall by the wholeness and light of Jesus in us.

 “What you do in the Lord is not in vain. You are not oiling the wheels of a machine that’s about to roll over a cliff. You are not restoring a great painting that’s shortly going to be thrown on the fire. You are not planting roses in a garden that’s about to be dug up for a building site. You are—strange though it may seem, almost as hard to believe as the resurrection itself—accomplishing something that will become in due course part of God’s new world. 

Every act of love, gratitude, and kindness; every work of art or music inspired by the love of God and delight in the beauty of his creation; every minute spent teaching a severely handicapped child to read or to walk; every act of care and nurture, of comfort and support, for one’s fellow human beings, and for that matter, one’s fellow nonhuman creatures; and of course every prayer, all Spirit-led teaching, every deed that spreads the gospel, builds up the church, embraces and embodies holiness rather than corruption, and makes the name of Jesus honoured in the world—all of this will find its way, through the resurrecting power of God, into the new creation that God will one day make.  

God's recreation...began with the resurrection of Jesus and continues mysteriously as God's people live in the risen Christ and in the power of his Spirit...what we do in Christ and by the Spirit in the present is not wasted.”²

Our sorrow and suffering are not meaningless. Our work and creativity have an eternal purpose. God's own beauty, infused in this world and spread through us, is not made for destruction. We are building the Kingdom of God with every act of love, with art and creativity, with thankfulness, with every meal shared. We push back the darkness by the creative and recreative light and love of Jesus at work in and through us. It is not something demanded of us, rather, it is a gift given to us that we get to join Jesus in building the Kingdom.

I begin to understand what Jesus means when He says, "Learn the unforced rhythms of grace." Grace, charis. It means both thanks and favour. God's favour is not forced upon us, and we are not forced to give thanks for His gift. Thanksgiving or delight is an overflow of the heart, the spontaneous response to God's favour. There is that thrumming rhythm of God's grace gifted to us, our thanks to Him, and our delight or joy in giving thanks. So it goes, over and over. It is our choice to receive the invitation into the dance, to let Christ through us build His Kingdom. We must constantly lean into the rhythm, to learn to step into the dance "freely and lightly."

___________

1. Matthew 11:28-30 The Message, trans. by Eugene Peterson

2. Wright, N T, Surprised by Hope (New York: New York, Harper Collins, 2008) 208-209

Missing Out

"Let's see, I can fit you into my schedule next month." Yes, my neighbour actually said that to me. I smiled a little, since it was still early in the current month. Then I sighed inside. I used to be that person. Some seasons I still am, because friends are only in town at certain times and you make crazy work.

Summer is my losing-sanity season. I sweat at work for long summer days. I sweat on the hiking trail drinking in freshest mountain air. I sweat when I show visiting friends around town—somehow it's always sunny here when people want to amble downtown. I sweat most when someone asks me to get together—Um, no thanks. I'm physically exhausted, I can't people—is what my brain thinks. My mouth sometimes follows suit, declining as graciously as I can, or sometimes saying yes. I resent the event if I say yes and haven't had an evening or three for margin, so I try to learn the dance steps of balance.

Perhaps it is because Millennials crave experience that they1 are novice dancers of this balance. There is an intense fear of missing out on all kinds of experiences. If you don't believe me, try this: think of a time you were invited to an event you weren't too excited about attending. You decided not to go—then spent the entirety of an hour, or the evening, vacillating on whether or not you should have gone. Classic symptoms of the fear of missing out. It rears up in other forms, too. For example, always looking to what is coming next, rather than enjoying the present moment, day, or season. It is snowing? I wish it were summer. It is summer? It’s it far too hot to do anything. Too bad it's not autumn! And on it goes. Millennials or not, I think many of us wrestle with wanting something in the future, neglecting to enjoy what we have now. We're so afraid of missing what we might have that we, in essence, throw away what we do have.

After one particularly draining year and a very unbalanced summer, I began to purpose to miss out. Because Sundays were largely taken up with church and co-leading youth group, I began to make Saturdays my sabbath or solitude-day. Was it difficult to say no to events with friends on Saturdays? You bet. But, I needed a day not to have anything forcing me to be on schedule in some way. Even if I have a hike all planned out for a Saturday, alarm set for some golden hour of the morning, I am going because I want to and I know the drive and the hike will both recharge me. And if I don’t get up when the alarm sounds, it’s my own choice to sleep longer and hit the trail late. No one is going to call and ask where I am—you can’t “oversleep” if there is no timetable. I turn off my phone many Saturdays—one doesn’t always have to be available. I may write or reply to emails, not because I feel the pressure or demand to, but because I want to write. I will probably putter around my kitchen or do some housework, but I will also sit on my porch and watch the clouds sail along, turning all pink in the evening. I rest. I breathe. I perspire. I am inspired. All because I miss out.

By saying yes to a sabbath, I end up saying no to other things. However, I have learnt that missing out means having more depth and sanity in my life. Missing out often means I don't make room for shallow relationships. Staying to help a friend clean up after the party often leads to heart-to-heart conversations. Conversations that could not have happened during the ever-in-motion gathering. Missing out means hiking alone and praying—meditating on the things I haven't had enough thinking time in one stretch to ponder during the week. Missing out means some things get written that never would have, had I not purposed to be home a couple of evenings a week.

Missing out means I rarely get invited to social events anymore, so I stress less over how to say no. This is a relief, as I don't enjoy disappointing people. I no longer waver with guilt when I stay home from an event—especially if I never even knew the event was happening! I get invited to the important gatherings by the friends I know well—celebrations I want to say yes to anyway. I don't maintain too many surface friendships [acquaintanceships] when I get left off certain social lists. I have a lot of tea dates and let's-go-for-a-walk-and-talk dates with my friends. There are many small dinners in my even smaller cabin. I don't miss out on the conversations where we're laughing until we cry, and crying until someone offers a gentle look and the kleenex box.

I don't miss out too much, because I am learning to be present. Being present in the quiet evenings on my porch with a mug of tea. Present—just watching snow and silence swish down. Present in praying and looking and thinking and thanking on hiking trails, meeting friendly people and dogs as I go. Present in washing dishes with friends and in offering kleenex. Present in the laughter and the tears and the sane moments in between. Present to hear the ups and downs of the relationship all along, so that I can cry and squeal with delight when my friend calls to tell me she just got engaged. Present to the still, small voice, whispering through the pines, singing from the stars, holding out hope while I sit in the ashes, holding me up when I can't stand.

Miss out. Try it. Miss out on the surface stuff. Choose to have a solitude evening or day. Guard it—let me tell you, it is hard to guard my sabbath. Miss out sometimes on listening to music or podcasts or anything but the wind in the trees, just for an evening. Miss out on leaving one party for the next, so you can stay late to wash the dishes and talk. Miss out, so that you, too, can learn to be present.

__________

1. Though I technically fit in the Millennial bracket, the way I was raised—being born barely in the Millennial window, having much older siblings—places me in a different lifestyle than many of my peers.

O Stellar Beau

I looked into the sky last night

   with upturned, amorous eye,

              to catch a glimpse of the Hunter

           who treads the Winter sky.

There he was in all his might,

            I gazed quite long upon the sight

                     of his stately form and arcing bow,

                          his star-studded belt shone bright.

I tromped on, past bend and tree,

     to find the Hunter, peering at me!

O, it made my heart quiver

                  with a hope that anyone could see.

Alas, alas! We are lovers, star-crossed

in the truest sense—he is all star

                 and I am all alight with love from afar,

                  love that even distance cannot mar.

How marvellous that he has trod

          the great dance steps—none forgot,

             no falter of his magnificent form

                      on the waltz floor breathed by God.

Across the sky the Hunter sings,

      a silver star-song to the Pleiades,

       to the fairest sister of them all;

                        thus, the Winter sky with music rings.

Ever valiant his bow keeps at bay

Taurus, the bully of the fray,

               and so they dance, one Winter sky

                    to the next—half the world away.

He's sinking Westward more each night,
my longing heart can only sigh,

                        aching with dreams of the starry Hunter,

                             until once again his crescent bow I spy

                  rising up in the Winter sky

                                     to proclaim that my Love is nigh...

Remember...

Sometimes special dates slip by, unnoticed in the hustle of other things. Today, even though my family and I spent an enjoyable, full day at the Creation Museum, I knew underneath that what day it was. Today is my grandmother's birthday... The first one we have had without her. She would have been ninety-five if she had not passed away in March. I think it was a hard day for my dad, but he didn't say anything about it; just patiently drove us to and from the museum, treating us to dinner on the way home.

Sometimes I think folks forget that Christmas isn't all joy, peace, and cheer. For many persons, Christmas is a lonely time of year, an angry season, an unmet expectation, or a painful time. We feel more keenly the loss of loved ones, the inability to afford gifts, or the bitterness of disappointed hopes.  

This Christmas in the Midwest feels more like Spring than Winter—with foggy mists, rainy nights, and bearable temperatures. It feels more like a long visit with my family than a holiday. It feels like anything but Christmas. There are a myriad of reasons for this, one of which is the loss of my grandmother. I sat in, or near, her pew by myself on Christmas Eve, holding back tears. Not only was my grandmother's place empty, but my Dad decided not to attend with me this year. I'm glad he didn't, because life has been hard enough for him the last two or three years—he didn't need to be sad on Christmas Eve, too. 

So, I inhaled sorrow co-mingled with the joyous annunciation to the shepherds that a Saviour was born unto them—those rough, smelly, unnoticed men. To them, the ones who lived on the fringes, beneath the lower class, out of the minds of nearly everyone—outcasts. Yet, not cast out by God. He remembered the lowly and forgotten shepherds. He remembers still those on the fringes of society, the edges of church sanctuaries, and the ones separated from everyone else by grief, loneliness, and heartbreak. God remembers. He gently nudges those of us who feel like outcasts, reminding us that all those years ago, the Timeless One stepped into time to be the Saviour of the world. And that is what He is, still. In the midst of the pain and disappointment that separates us from feeling like it's Christmas, God is with us—Emmanuel. 

This Christmas feels more like Spring than Winter—perhaps this is God's physical reminder to us that new life is stirring under the mud and dirt. We must remember that the grave is not the end. Even things that seem dead and buried might be raised to new and beautiful life, like Spring flowers. Perhaps I am naïve, or put too much faith in impressions, but the winds of change seem to be blowing away the ashes of this last year to the four corners of the earth. In the soil of hearts and relationships, the life of the Spirit of God is breathing. He is stirring up the earth 'round the roots of the good seed and bulbs of Truth—life is wriggling beneath the surface of the new year.

New years themselves are the edges of one season blending into another, of one year gracefully giving way to the next in the Great Dance. Sometimes the sadness in our lives slowly fades into joy, without us knowing the moment of transition. And sometimes new life is breathed into dead hearts and relationships. As G. K. Chesterton explains:

"...boundaries are the most beautiful things in the world. To love anything is to love its boundaries; thus children will always play on the edge of anything. They build castles on the edge of the sea, and can only be restrained by public proclamation and private violence from walking on the edge of the grass. For when we have come to the end of a thing we have come to the beginning of it."

Said another way: fringes and edges are where change is occurring. New beginnings are at the boundaries of old endings. The shepherds on Bethlehem's hillside were on the cusp of a new life, of seeing the world turned upside down. Surely they remembered the night that angels rent the heavens with the news of a Saviour in those silent, dark days. So, too, at Christmas we remember the hard, the dark nights, and the loss—but those horizon line is drawing near and we are coming to the first word in the first chapter of a new beginning. Let us remember, and look forward with eager expectation to what Jesus has set before us.

From "The End" to "Once Upon a Time..."

Advent: Week 2

Toward the end of each year I become eager for the next. Perhaps the new year's freshness wafts into my soul, breathing life inside. Maybe I think the current year has been quite long enough—I am ready for new dreams, people, and places. Deeper than than that, though, is the reality that the new church year has already begun. Advent is the new beginning amidst the end. The steps of the Great Dance have come full circle, to be made new in this familiar theme.

For me, Advent, Christmas, and New Year's are the season of both looking back and peering to see ahead. Hindsight is not always as clear as people say it is. Upon reviewing this year, I see a lot of messy, painful life situations for my friends, family, and myself. These things do not wrap up neatly at the end of the year. There is still much question-asking and inability to see God's plan unfolding. In some cases all I can see are the tossing heads of hoary waves, no land in sight. How can anyone survive the turbulence, the repeated buffets, of such conditions with no respite in view? Only by Hope. Hope is the anchor for our souls, to keep us from drifting out to sea and being lost among the crashing, crushing waves. 

Hope. Anchor. Abandonment. Ashes. Fearlessness. Bitterness. Forgiveness. These words have twisted into a thick cord, the thread woven through the tapestry of this year. They have haunted the rising and falling melody of the Great Dance with their dissonance, assonance, and resonance. What words will step into their places this new year? What themes will emerge in the music always over our lives, in the weaving of God's seen-story? 

I do not have answers yet. The above words have been whirling through my thoughts, writing, and reading so much that I had to again spill them upon the page. With these words I go from "The End" toward the unknown "Once upon a time." This next story may be full of ogres, sorrow, and sore loss—but it may be filled with valiant warriors for what is right, with wisdom sought and found. I suspect that it, too, will end with Hope.  

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. 

~ Saint John  1:1-5 (ESVUK) 

Fearless

Grey trees have barely given up their leaves before dark, swirling skies trace those limbs with white. The rising and falling of the seasons in their steps of the Great Dance have nearly made their circuit. Consequently, my mind is recalled to the beginning of this year, with all its fresh hopes and vague possibilities. Memories step out, one by one, only to be swept back into the dance of time. Grief and Beauty waltz together. Sorrow beats time with Joy. Suffering looks quietly into the eyes of Hope. Bitterness clasps hands with Forgiveness. The motif of the Dance this year seemed strange when originally given to me by the Instructor Himself back in those fresh, first days of January: Fearlessness.

In the nativity of the year I thought being fearless meant meeting obstacles and adventures head on. I had inklings of what some of the hurdles might be, hopes of what the adventures would contain. I little knew how difficult the hardships would be. I did not reckon that adventures were risks that could fail and wound miserably.

Much of the year held such sore trials that it seems to replay in black and white rather than colour. Deaths. Friends and family worn out with the things required of them. Betrayal. Being cast out by loved ones. Uncertainty. Deeply wounded hearts. Bitterness. Prodigal children. Loneliness. Certainly not all of these things visited me, but they have been visited upon such close friends and family that they have affected me very personally. I look back upon this year and see marriages crumbled; dreams burnt up; loved ones buried; relationship turned to cold, dead embers—I see ash.

Woven throughout, like intricate dance steps, are flashes of colour: lime and ochre aspens, glowing in warm sunlight. Dazzling white smiles of friends visiting and visted. Lavender and white cosmos along my walking path. Pink, brown, green, and black ink, flowing with words of hope, cheer, and life. Orange-red sunlight, pouring over the foothills at dawn. Bright blue eyes filled with whimsy. A rain of golden leaves falling like a shower over me and a friend. Sly red foxes on night walks and gift-mugs. Green in every crevice of long-dry mountains and sidewalk cracks. Mottled grey, brown, and red stones, illuminated by liquid sunlight in a chuckling, clear stream. Hazy blue mountains and burnished clouds at sunset on my solitude hikes. The navy velvet of the night sky, pierced by silver stars... All the colour of this year radiates from Beauty, love, and personality.

The Psalmist reminds us to worship the LORD in the Beauty of holiness... It is the Beauty that leads us to worship, that breathes life into dead places. When we see a wildflower in the wilderness, hear a single burst of birdsong on a chilly morning walk, know the love of another, it is then that the breath of life rushes into our souls.

I am tempted to look at the snow out my window and see flying ash. So many dreams and hopes have become but fine dust in my hands this year. Instead, I do the only thing I can: I pour every last handful of ash on God's altar, asking Him to raise a flame of Hope. Not a fragile "thing with feathers" as Emily Dickinson calls hope, but a solid, weighty anchor for my drifting soul. I ask for new, richer dreams; for restoration to rise like a phoenix from these pale ashes.

I am learning that to be fearless does not mean to be foolhardy, but to hope in the midst of burning dreams. To be fearless means to love, because perfect love casts out all fear.

Many months ago I read something about pain and fear... It broke my heart then as it does now—and every time I re-read it. It is the real Hope and Beauty in the midst of sorrow that stares at me from these words:

I wrote in my journal: So here is what I want to remember and never forget: Anxiety is the devil. Fear is a taste of hell because it cuts us off from the ever-offered rest of God’s love. And fear cannot do one damn thing to avert the thing feared. 

Sorrow, on the other hand, is a kind friend, and when it comes, grace comes, too, and all the tender mercies of God. All fear is the fear of loss and death; all love comes with a price tag of pain; all true sorrow has its counterpoint of joy. And it’s real. We’re living it in the most vivid way. 

 And if we’re running along the beach laughing at one moment and weeping over the grief that is coming the next, well then, this is life abundant, the full package. And the joy is more real than the grief because the joy is forever and the pain is for but the passing shadow of this life.

Lanier Ivester, Love Begets 

Even in the valley of the shadow the stars shine...

Deep red light streaked across my kitchen panes yesterday morning. In the fog of sleepiness I thought of the line, "Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning," then rolled over for a little more precious slumber. 

When evening came, I honestly have no idea what colour the sky was... I only knew that the red dawn was followed by an evening call. "She's gone." Words I had been anticipating for a week. Words I have been dreading to hear. Words one never quite knows how they will receive until they have to. 

Blindly I walked out into the night, feeling the cool Spring air revive my tumbled thoughts. Revive: breathe new life into... How could I have so much life in my lungs when her lungs were empty now? I walked harder, feet pelting toward the mountain. I needed space. Stillness. Steadiness. 

Clambering up the washed out path, I reached a flat place, panting. Stopping in the darkness, my eyes adjusted enough to look up at the mighty beams of light above me. Mighty, yet so distant as to appear but pin pricks in Heaven's canopy. My eyes traced the trio of beacons in Orion's belt. There sat Betelgeuse, a splendid red orb in the hunter's shoulder. Red. Like the morning sky... 

I reeled, seeking for an anchor in the midst of my anguish. Next to me the rush of snow-melt in the stream sang its joyful, gushing tune. Above me the wind swept through the pines and over my sorrow-streaked face. O'erhead the constellations solemnly trod their seasoned steps. How many times has the earth revolved around the sun? And there are the Pleiades every Autumn (in this hemisphere), peeking above the low ridge, beginning their trek across the sky. My eyes will only see them only a little longer before they visit the other half of the world. Then we will see the Summer crown rising in the next season.

Even in the change of seasons there is a constancy, like the river and mountains, trees and stars, and the continual rising and falling of the sun and moon. Even as the wind brings a change in the weather, it is still the same familiar wind we know from every playful Summer caress, or wild Winter dervish. Even as my dear 'snow season' melts into golden and royal purple crocuses, there is a familiarity in the pattern of the year. 

New hope springs up in me. The ebb and flow of life remind me of the Creator's hand holding all things together, ordering the strides of the universe from day to day and night to night. How much more incredible is it that He orders my daily and nightly steps, small as I am? He Who is acquainted with our grief walks with us through the dark valley of the shadow. 

One day, death will stand on its head and everything sad will come untrue. Because He danced the reel of this earth, and died our death for us, and is so full of life that not even death could hold Him... It had to let Him go into abundant life. This is another grappling hook for my soul... Yet the fullness of Life found in Christ does not mean I am cheerful in the face of death. Oh, the face of my own death, maybe. I am not afraid of what is to come, though perhaps that is because I don't know how truly grave and mysterious and real and joyful it will be. 

But in this shadow before the real, this dream before the waking, I feel the rending claws of death. I see it filling its voracious appetite with unborn children and frail grandmothers, with soldiers and civilians, rich and poor. I shudder at its touch on my shoulder, upon my family. "Begone, foul dwimmerlaik, lord of carrion!" cries my soul. I seek refuge under the shadow of the wings of my Father in Heaven. Here I will hide my shredded soul, until the Healer begins –no, continues– His work to remake this fragmented me into something Beautiful. Here I will hide, until a flame rises out of the cold ashes. Here I will mourn, and He will weep with me, even though He knows the end of the story and has told me that all shall be made well. 

Helen Margaret Marie Sophie Byrkett 

27 December 1919 – 17 March 2014

~ Johanna

Through Lenten Lands

"Gurgling he went under, and the River closed over his curly head. An exclamation of dismay came from the empty boat. Frodo was just in time to grasp Sam by the hair as he came up, bubbling and struggling. Fear was staring in his round brown eyes. " 

~ J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

Gurgling. Spluttering. I come up for air like Samwise, fear staring wide out of my blue-green eyes. The year has surged forward like a massive, unlooked-for wave, knocking me into the eddying current with nothing to cling to but the empty air. Yet like Sam, an invisible hand grasps mine, pulling me out of the swirling abyss of my fears and the rush of time. The Anchor of my soul keeps me from drifting away completely, like Frodo pulling Sam into the boat on the Great River. 

I have most certainly fallen out of the boat, out of the rhythm in the dance known as the church calendar, since Epiphany. I came home and life capsized. One hardship after another has loomed up in the lives of my friends and family - hardships no one ought to have to face. Yet here they are, unexpected, unwonted. The river of time hurls me against the rocks along the bottom. Snap! I hit the end of the slack in the line between me and the Anchor: Ash Wednesday, the commencement of Lent. A rhythm. A season. A kedge. 

Ashes. How strange that a season which begins with ashes ends in resurrection. The Resurrection is the true myth of the Phoenix rising from the ashes. That snags my attention. I crave the hope of new life from the sooty shards of many things: marriages, friendships, cancer, hopes crushed, and the like. I feel the sweeping motion of a cross rubbed on my forehead and the Rector reminds me, "Remember that thou art but dust, and to dust thou shalt return." This reality bites deeply today, as tomorrow I will walk alongside a companion whose mother died on Friday. 

Another Friday in history, death claimed its greatest defeat: the Son of Man, God Himself. But that Friday was followed by Sunday, when the teeth of death were uprooted by the Resurrection and the Life. Our resurrection Sundays are multi-fold, as we are brought further and further into life. The more we die to self, the more we are fully alive. When everything we know is engulfed in raging flames, we are further refined. We are given cleansing and forgiveness through the ashes. 

God offers us an incredible trade, Give Me your ashes and I will give you My Beauty. He always takes the 'losing' side - giving us priceless gifts in return for our brokenness, broken promises, and broken hearts. He promises to take the penalty if we break the covenant, though that is completely unheard of in covenant making. He gives us good gifts when all we have to offer is broken and marred. He clothes us in His Beauty when our grubby hands are full of cinders.

Closing my eyes I feel the cross traced on my forehead. I taste the wafer and the wine. These are more than icons, more than shadows. They are real acts, real elements that remind me of the reality that death has been, IS, defeated. Reminding me that all the burned up dreams, hopes, and relationships we are experiencing, are the ashes from which God's glory will rise. As my very dear friend said last week, "When the breaking is deeper than we think it can be, [God's] redemption must be deeper still." 

~ Johanna

Seasons and Rhythms

Here we are again, tapping the feet of our souls to the rhythm and cycle of the church calendar. We just performed the steps of Advent and now sweep into the Great Dance of Christmastide. All while everyone else is going back to 'life as usual.' We have spent four weeks preparing for Christmas: not one day, but twelve, culminating in Epiphany. All those little candles we lit on Christmas Eve are lit again on Epiphany, to remind us that Christ Jesus came into the world as the light of men... And His light shines through each of us.

Last Christmas season I was captivated by Isaiah chapter nine verse two: the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. This year I have been pondering John chapter one, particularly the opening verses:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things were made through Him, and without Him was not any thing made that was made. In Him was Life, and the Life was the Light of men. The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. 

Darkness cannot overcome light, but the light pierces the darkness and drives it away. So Christ, our very life, is the Light of men. He did not merely reflect God the Father, like we ought, but He is the Light, illuminating God the Father. 'And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen His glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth.' (John 1:14)

So we have light and life, seasons and rhythms. We rise and fall in the steps of the Great Dance, much like an old-fashioned square dance – changing partners, changing directions, changing steps... And then doing it all over, one song leading into the next, the tempo rising, now falling. Holding hands all 'round, spinning free and then coming back to the circle, dancing a waltz, now a jitterbug. One great line, next showcasing individual steps, and now all together - over, under, weaving in and out. The Spirit of life is the music and rhythm, bringing the dancers together in step. No one person dances for himself, but with everyone, even when he is not touching their hands. 

We come back to community, communion, in this image of life being a Great Dance. A dance needs dancers. Life is made for something, someone, to live it. And so we live life, which is only full when it weaves in, out, over, under, and around others, directed by the Spirit Himself. So Christmas is the rhythm of the Dance for this season, and without a break in the music, the tune will spin into Epiphany, then the minor tones will slip in for Lent, and the golden full notes of Easter shine on the horizon... And though the dance rises and falls in the fervour, or solemnity, or the stillness of the season, the steps change each year, so that they never grow old.

Let us who have seen the glory of the only Son reflect His light. Let us who feel the wind of the Spirit move in rhythm to the steps of His Great Dance. 

Let us dance, dance, dance in God's honour. 

Let us yield all of our steps unto the King.

~ Johanna