The World is Full of Weariness and Wonder

Light rain is singing on the shingles, dripping to the carpet of pine needles by my porch. Darkness has descended in earnest, as it has threatened to do during several waves of thunderheads today. Evening has come, but I am bathed in warm light—my porch transformed into a quaint café with the help of several strands of twinkle lights wrapped 'round the rafters. I am pleased with my handiwork this day. 

It has been a long weekend of learning to rest well. . . I didn't accomplish any of the handwritten letters I planned to pen, but I organised various things in my home, put up lights, went hiking with a friend, read, walked slowly through a garden at sunset, and sat on my porch simply watching the rain fall. There is something to be said for the hours I spent accomplishing things around the house, but there is more to be said for the quiet moments of holding a mug of tea and listening to the raindrop chorus. There is something magical about sitting under twinkle lights as grey clouds melt into black skies. There is a grand sense of awe staring up at a waterfall a hundred feet high, pounding with spring snow melt. There is wonder in turning to stare up at a seagull-coloured house set against dark pines—a house etched with stars and trees at the cornices, its windows echoing the pink evening clouds. 

There is weariness in this world—but it is contrasted with all the glowing wonder sprinkled in the crevices. That huge glimmering star on the Western horizon reminds me that sadness is not all there is. That sorrow doesn't swallow up every ounce of joy. The hurts, the losses, and the fears that parade through the lives of my friends and family—that stab my own heart—are not all. Beauty also pierces us through. Wonder freezes us in our tracks. Glory bows our hearts. Desire makes us ache. But the piercing, pause, praise, and pain are not mortal wounds—they are healing hurts. They make us whole. Our yearning reminds us that there is more, so much more, than our narrow field of vision.

A thumbnail moon glimmers through the pine boughs tonight, and I breathe my thanks for its glory. A keen air, fresh and faintly perfumed with spring, whispers in my ears as it passes. Too many times I forget to praise, so the mountains cry out the Maker's goodness and grandeur. Too many times I tuck my head down and get stuck inside my thoughts, not seeing the stars and trees and painted sunsets. Too many times my own wallowing blinds me to the pain of others—others to whom I could show the stars and the piercing Beauty that reminds us that the shadow is but a small and passing thing. 

May I see beauty in unexpected places and in the features of men's faces. May my words point back to the Creator, who is forever blessed. May His words ring out from me in thanksgiving, in asking for forgiveness, in kindness, in giving grace as I have been granted grace. . . Amen.

Shadow Reflections

I walked home from the stars

last night, and found upon my way

a branch, as an elderly hand in sway,

its shadow on the wall made scars.

Painted limb appeared more real

than the mesh of winter twigs

twining about in grey-green sprigs;

the shade-tree’s lines dark enough to feel.

I pondered how I would like to be

a clear shadow on history’s wall,

though I could only grapple with the Fall,

redemption shown in depths of two, not three.

All we are is but flickering shade—

yet in this season of Bright Sadness,

even shadows reflect in crisp blackness,

the glory of the King, fresh made.

Splendour in Every Crack and Crevice

The night skies sing the glory of God!

Dark and light, clouds and constellations are crafted by His deft hands.

Daily they declaim, night upon night they raise a chorus of praise.

Even though our ears cannot hear their speeches and symphonies,

Still their message of God's glory and splendour has filled

Every crevice and crack in all of the cosmos.

Thus I paraphrased the opening verses of Psalm nineteen a few weeks ago. I was out on a snowy tramp in the mountains, seeking some solitude under the night sky. The Milky Way was so thick with stars that it was more like seeing specks of black space in a sky of silver light. My heart responded with the opening lines of Psalm nineteen and the Doxology. 

In my life I find that Beauty leads me to worship. Beauty soothes the wounds inflicted on various fronts. No, let me rather say that Beauty heals our wounded souls. It enriches our lives. This is because Beauty is not an end in itself, but is a reflection of God's holiness. Beauty heals our hearts by leading us to worship and thank the Almighty One.

This giving thanks (eucharisteo in Greek) is our connection to life in Christ Himself. Think for a moment of what various church traditions call the Lord's Supper—the Eucharist. Growing up in a more evangelical set of churches, I thought that the Lord's Supper was a time for seeing how wicked I was and for repenting. Earnestly I would examine myself, tell God I was sorry, eat the bread, drink the juice, and go home. 

Years of conversations and reading Scripture more deeply have reshaped my understanding of the Eucharist. Yes, I examine my heart, I agree with God that the things I have done or left undone are sin, and I ask to walk in newness of life—the spiritual life of Christ received in the bread and the wine of the common cup. My response to His sacrifice and His life is spoken by the chalice bearer: "Take this in remembrance that Christ died for you and be thankful." 

God, Who is good (eu), offers me grace (charis) through Christ. My response is to give thanks (eucharisteo). It is a daily rhythm, like the steady beating of my heart, or breathing in and out. Every day I am greeted with Beauty in various places, ways, and individuals. I am offered the healing and grace of God, if I will keep my eyes and heart open to see and receive His gifts. In response, I breathe out my thanks, my praise of His goodness and holiness and Beauty. 

I am learning that healing and thanksgiving do not come in one fell swoop. They are an everyday process. As it is an existential request to be emptied of myself and filled afresh with God's Spirit, so it is with practising eucharisteo. Only Jesus can accomplish something "once for all", whilst we must take daily steps toward Him and His completeness. 

Stars have never put a scrap of silver in my pocket, but I am richer for their beauty shining into my eyes and heart. The person I am, fragmented by the Fall, is becoming more like Jesus, made whole by Beauty that leads to worship—by grace flowing in, thanksgiving flowing out. Every crevice and crack in me is being filled with the splendour of God. Like the stars in the heavens, I shine out with the glory of God. Yet unlike those silver spheres, my words of praise to God can be heard by my fellow men, if only I will speak them.

The Word Made Flesh...

"Nails, spear shall pierce Him through
The Cross be borne for me, for you
Hail, hail the Word made flesh
The Babe the Son of Mary"

—What Child is This?

"The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen His glory..." So says Saint John's opening chapter. The Word was made flesh...The Eternal Word was spoken into time, was made into finite man, frail flesh. What did the Son of God gain by this? Insults, rejection, and threats of stoning. Nails, thorns, and a spear thrust into His side. He who was Light and Life was dealt a death-blow. Yet the darkness cannot overcome the light. Death is swallowed up in life. The Word sounding and resounding in time and space does not come back void. That Word is robust, full of Truth and grace.

Many times it seems that "hate is strong and mocks the song of peace on earth goodwill to men." That God's promises and gifts are puny next to the prince of the power of the air. However, when Paul says that death is swallowed up in life—and John truthfully proclaims that the darkness is expelled by the Light, unable to overcome it—we see that God's gifts are rich and vibrant next to shadowy, gnarled phantoms. We still live like a people sitting in darkness, trapped into thinking there is a monster in the shade...But the Light is dawning—more full of life, rich hues, and Truth than the paltry darkness that seeks to blind our seeing eyes. The Light is real. The promises are solid. The Hope of our souls was made flesh and He tabernacles among us. Now—and forevermore.

Hail, hail the Word made flesh!

Rain-glory

Yet again the eaves are drip-drip–dropping, and thunder throbs above the clouds. Rain scent falls, hushes the neighbour children, and breathes its sweetness in at my open windowpane. Pattering droplets sing their song slowly today, and my heart is glad. Glad for slow rain to cool the day. For dark clouds brooding over the mountains, so I might see their creases and lines differently, like an ever-changing face on those long-standing rocks. 

If you ask me, the glory of Summer is not sunshine, but storm clouds. Rain makes me want to shirk my work more than any other Summer attraction. I want to write, to read, to sit on my porch feeling the keen wind waken my soul. There is a holy mystery in the shroud laid over the far foothills. Wet pine is the incense of this moment, the fragrance lifting my senses to the Storm-maker. With the first crack of thunder I throw off the torpid stupor of Summer heat and come alive. Suddenly, all my senses are engaged, awake.  

Rain is a revival of the earth and of the soul. It is life and drink to a thirsty ground, a communion of the heavens and the earth. Perhaps the mystery behind the silver veil made by sheets of rain, the incense of rain and pine, the eyes dazzled by lightning, the earth beneath my feet shaken by thunder, and the cool wind rushing over me engage my whole self in revival. Like the holy mysteries of bread and wine, the scent of smoking incense, the act of kneeling in prayer, and eyes drawn to the cross at the altar bring my whole body to worship, repentance, and renewal. 

Like a lightning bolt to the heart, I see it: I love rain because it leads me to worship. Rain stills my soul and quickens my creativity because it affects all of my self. Those icy droplets, fresh wind, solemn thunder claps, and the life showered on the earth are a reflection, a pantomime, of my worship and communion at church. Ah! Rain really is the glory of Summer. The glory and communion of this season. Each season has its own reflection of the worship service, of communion, of coming alive. Even the Autumn and Winter speak of death as but a precursor to new life. 

I inhale the scent of wet earth. I feel the flecks of cold water in the breeze. I rock gently with the thunder's thrumming. I peer through the veil of rain at shadowy wonders. And I give thanks to God for watering the earth and the flowers and the trees. I give thanks that wildfires are not ravaging the foothills. I give thanks for the break from the heat. I smile in joy, just listening to the rain. It is the worship service of the Summer, and I am invited. I attend.

Welcome, October!

OCTOBER was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths.

Anne revelled in the world of colour about her. "Oh, Marilla," she exclaimed one Saturday morning, coming dancing in with her arms full of gorgeous boughs, "I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it? Look at these maple branches. Don't they give you a thrill...?"

~ Anne Shirley, in Anne of Green Gables (Chapter 16)

 October gives me a thrill, dressed in bright yellows,fresh greens, burnt orange, and flashes of scarlet and purple. I have driven across Colorado a good bit since October began on Tuesday -- up to Vail, and over to Maroon Bells with my parents, and I finished up the week with a hike up Raspberry Mountain, near Cripple Creek. 

The colours, the crisp air, the scent of leaves all washed me in the glory of Autumn. Truly, I think every season is bursting with God's glory, and that glory is reflected in us when we take the time to just be, to drink in the Beauty all 'round us. Perhaps it is easier for me to see the Beauty of each season because I live in the mountains and it is always beautiful here... Perhaps. But I think that one simply has to have the right eyes to see Beauty. Then one can see the glory behind every fiery bush and flaming stand of aspens, or in the dripping fog and the bent cornstalks of the Midwest. There is 'scope for the imagination' anywhere you are, and there is always Beauty to be found if you will look.

So, welcome, October. I can never have this September back, but I can have this October in its wake... And that is glory!

Trail leading up Raspberry Mountain

~ Johanna

O, October!

"This year is growing old gracefully, just like a stately old lady who knows she can be charming even with grey hair and wrinkles... How quiet the woods are today, not a murmur except that soft wind purring in the treetops! It sounds like surf on a faraway shore.  How dear the woods are! You beautiful trees! I love every one of you as a friend." 

~ Anne of Avonlea, chapter 10

The Apple of His Eye...

Friday began for me last night (a rather Hebraic way of beginning days) when I braided my shower-wet hair before bed.


I woke up (looking like this - yikes!) to hazy golden sunlight pouring in my window.

I read this morning's Psalm (seventeen) and was rather delighted with the final verse: "As for me, I shall behold your face in righteousness; when I awake, I shall be satisfied with your likeness."

This comes after David cries out for God's comfort and protection from his enemies. He laments that the wicked seem to prosper and he begs for God to discontinue their success. The vile are blessed with children and riches, but David says he will be satisfied to behold God's face, to have God's presence turned toward him.

The final verse correlates with the previous idea from verses 7-9: "Show Thy marvellous kindness, O Thou that savest by Thy right hand them which put their trust in Thee from those that rise up against them.

Keep me as the apple of Thy eye, hide me under the shadow of Thy wings, From the wicked that oppress me, from my deadly enemies, who compass me about."

David asks God to keep him as the apple of His eye. An intriguing request, because the Hebrew phrase means 'little man of the eye', or the reflection one sees of themselves in the pupil of another's eye. David is asking that God would see Himself in David.

We want to be loved for who we are, but we also want to be made more like Christ. It is a strange paradox that in becoming more like Christ Himself, we become more fully human, able to be most fully our 'selves' that God made us. God looks at us and sees a tiny reflection of Himself in us.

When God shines the light of His countenance upon us, it is like Moses seeing the trail of God's glory on Mount Sinai. Just seeing the remnants of God's glory made the face of Moses radiant. No man can look upon God's face and live, yet God can shine the light of His countenance (meaning both the glory of His face, and His good favour) upon us. When He does, our faces are radiant with the light of His joy, hope, and glory.

No wonder David is satisfied at the end with God's 'likeness'. It is not the same word or idea as God's face or countenance, but it is the idea of seeing God's image, or a reminder of His presence.

Does your face shine with the glory of God? Does your very visage illuminate those around you because you have been in the presence of God? Are you the apple of God's eye?

~ Johanna

With the Rising of the Sun

"From the rising of the sun to its going down
The LORD’s name is to be praised."
~ Psalm 113:3

My alarm chirped at 4:30am on Thursday. Yes, I told it to impede my slumber, to return me from the land of Nod to the land of reality. I donned jeans and a sweatshirt, and headed off to the airport with my neighbour. Above us, constellations shone brightly before their nightly dance was whisked away by the daystar. When we pulled up to the airport, the Eastern sky was turning a tell-tale grey.

The drive home went quickly, followed by a (nearly forgotten) jaunt to the post office box. I had left an English muffin in the toaster and an egg in the pan (the burner was off!) in order to beat the postman at 6:15. Chilly morning air beckoned me up a historic street to see the Spring flowers. Then I walked to an overlook to watch the sun crest the low-lying foothills.

Liquid gold spilled across the horizon, like ink toppled on a table. I turned to look West and my next breath caught in my throat. Pike's Peak was backed by the last of the night sky, its hoary head now gleaming as burnished copper. Ordinary red dirt on the foothills was transformed into fiery paths, coupled with glowing pines. My gaze swung back to the source of life-giving light. There he was, the sleepyhead sun blinking his great eye.

Freezing fingers compelled me to trot home, finish preparing my half-made breakfast, and move on with my day. But stiff hands could not quell swirling thoughts. "The sun shines on everything, giving it life." "No, no, Beauty." "Perhaps both." "God does that." Stop. Repeat? "God does that." Thoughts moving at light-speed began running down this track. To save you from wading through my scattered thoughts, I will corral them for you.

What if our lives are like mountains, red dirt, lilting flowers, shaggy pines, splashing streams, - all brought to life when the sun shines upon them? Sure, the analogy isn't perfect - some of those things had "life" or Beauty before the sun shined upon them. Our lives do not. We are a lump of clay, scattered rock, stagnant pools. When God shines His glory upon us, the reflection is Beautiful. Life and order are imparted. As sure as a life is illuminated, our gaze is drawn to the Source of light, the Origin of glory. If we reflect the glory of God, those who see us will look for Him. How kind of the LORD to remind us of such lessons every day with the rising of the sun!


~ Johanna